


Of Two Seas

by itsacoup



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Ancient Greece & Rome, Developing Relationship, Epic, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-05
Updated: 2017-01-05
Packaged: 2018-09-14 21:19:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 44,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9203576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsacoup/pseuds/itsacoup
Summary: “You are lucky, little sailor,” the man says once Evgeni has looked his fill, and his voice is melodious, with a high edge to it but also an odd, gravelly way of speaking. “Lucky and strong. Strong enough to be my champion.” He drops his arm as he speaks the last word, turning towards Evgeni with a half-smile.Evgeni’s heart stops. In the man’s chest just above his breastbone glows the fire of Olympus, agod’sheart. It burns golden at the root, twisting up and shading into the unnatural purple flame that dances on ships during terrible storms. He sits beside a god, in this not-a-memory, a god that wishes for Evgeni to become his champion.Zhenya is just looking for a little adventure, but a mysterious god named Sid has different plans.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Because I just can’t stay away from ancient Greco-Roman-esque AUs, apparently. (And because the curse of _I’ll just write a quick 5k one-shot, it’ll be totally fine_ struck again, dammit.) Many loving thanks to arcadeghostadventurer for her early beta-ing/chatficcing and excellent Ancient Greek dictionary work  & to docbeeski and tsumego for their amazing, thorough beta-ing that got me through the long, dark “this fic is terrible!” phase with kind encouragements and the occasional squee via gdoc comment.
> 
> SEE END NOTE FOR CONTENT WARNINGS (includes spoilers). General warning for period-typical explicit violence.

_Evgeni remembers-- a beach of white sand, an ocean of crystal clear blue water. He looks down at his hands, and they are no longer decorated with white scars but instead are whole and tan. His clothing is brand-new again, a soft wool tunic brushing against his chest rather than the raggedy tunic and leather armor he has lived in for months. His loyal crew of two years’ journey, glory-hounds such as he, is not here; what is he remembering? Why does this feel like a memory, and yet is brand new?_

_The trickling of shifting sand sounds out next to him, and he turns, half-curling into a defensive position. A man sits next to him calmly, staring out to sea with his knees up and his arms draped loosely across them. He makes no sign of noticing Evgeni’s distress, and so as Evgeni relaxes, he takes his time to study the man. He is nobody that Evgeni knows, Evgeni is sure of it. His skin is porcelain white and flawless, and his hair dark and curly as it falls rakishly over his forehead. His eyes look to be a mix of green and brown like the forest, and they crinkle mischievously at the corners as he stares out at the sea. He wears nothing but a loincloth, and the sun is warm enough that no gooseflesh stands out on his arms._

_“You are lucky, little sailor,” the man says once Evgeni has looked his fill, and his voice is melodious, with a high edge to it but also an odd, gravelly way of speaking. “Lucky and strong. Strong enough to be my champion.” He drops his arm as he speaks the last word, turning towards Evgeni with a half-smile._

_Evgeni’s heart stops. In the man’s chest just above his breastbone glows the fire of Olympus, a_ god’s _heart. It burns golden at the root, twisting up and shading into the unnatural purple flame that dances on ships during terrible storms. He sits beside a god, in this not-a-memory, a god that wishes for Evgeni to become his champion._

_“No,” Evgeni says desperately, because this isn’t the adventure he was looking for--_

\------

Gulls, calling.

Wind, blowing.

Sun, burning.

Zhenya tries to groan, but his tongue is so thick in his mouth and his throat so raw that no sound comes out. He opens his eyes to the dark wood of the deck and is summarily blinded by sunlight when he turns his head to the side. Eventually, he sees sand beyond the railing, and the pull of the earth confirms it; the galley is beached and tilted sideways, left on land by the wild storm that rose last night and edged the ship in violet fire.

Perhaps this is how his death comes. He cannot see any others of his crew as he looks about the deck, though he can see very little of it as he is without the energy to prop himself up and look properly.  He tries to call out for Sergei, for Nikolai, but he can manage no more than a hiss from his dry and tortured mouth.

He rests. The sun continues to burn, the wind continues to blow, the birds continue to call. His eyes are open because it requires too much effort to close them, and he stares dumbly at the sand on the other side of the galley railing. The view is interrupted by a tiny, colorful bird, turning its head this way and that as it looks at Zhenya with each eye. It turns and hops away from him just to turn back and chirp.

“No,” Zhenya barely manages, slurred on the last of his breath, and the bird chirps again. It flutters over to his hand and pecks insistently at it before returning to its previous position, waiting.

Why should he try? His crew is dead, no doubt, every man pledged to him now in the underworld from the pursuit of his foolishness. He’s not going to struggle on for some ungrateful god that chose him against his will and left him alone, dying, on a nameless beach.

 **_GO_** , a voice reverberates in his head, a chime like a struck bell, and Zhenya attempts a whimper at the pain it leaves behind. His limbs start to itch, like lightning is ready to strike near him, as it did just before Zhenya was knocked unconscious during the shipwreck. He moves, though not because he wants to, but because some primal fear drives him to claw out. The ragged remains of his nails dig into the wood of the deck, and he drags himself forward. The burn in his body abates, a quiet reward for his action, and he reaches out again, dragging himself forward another tiny amount.

The bird stays as he slides down the deck of the galley, hopping along two arms’ lengths in front of Zhenya. When he tumbles from the deck onto the sand, the bird waits patiently until he can begin to drag himself again, following the bright puff of feathers before him.

The world has narrowed to settle-reach-pull-settle, eyes unwavering from his companion, when suddenly-- he feels different. Zhenya blinks, looking around, and he’s no longer on the beach. Trees stretch above him and green moss cushions his body. He can hear over the incessant _sssh_ of the ocean another sound of water, the cheerful burble of a stream. Two more desperate arms-lengths later, he is face-down in the stream, gulping the water, nearly crying at the cold chill against his parched tongue.

When he collapses onto his back, stomach bloated with water, the bird chirps again and flies off. **_GOOD_** , the voice in Zhenya’s head says. **_MY CHAMPION IS STRONG._ **

“I won’t be strong for long without food,” Zhenya rasps. He can feel the hair on his arms and scalp raise, and a fish leaps from the river and flops helplessly on the bank next to him. “Must you?” he complains, but there is no response, so he merely watches as the fish successfully thrashes its way back into the river. He feels a stronger crackle of power this time, and two fish throw themselves onto the land. “Why should I trust a god whose name I know not, nor their purpose?”

 **_I DO NOT NEED YOUR TRUST_** , the god says, and it is so unsubtle as to be painful. **_EAT THE FISH_**.

Zhenya laughs, and even the coughs that erupt amidst his mirth do not diminish it. “And yet if I do not trust you, I shall starve to death and you shall be without a champion,” he says, the brightness of his voice belying the returned threat within. “Perhaps I am but a mere mortal, but you have tied yourself to me, and so you owe me what I ask for.” The two new fish have successfully returned themselves to the river, and two more leap to the bank.

 **_YOU MAY CALL ME SID_** , the god says begrudgingly. **_EAT. THE. FISH._ **

Disobeying a god, even as that god’s champion, is veritable suicide, but Zhenya feels no charity towards a god that will save him but not his crew. He thinks of Sasha’s mischievous manner and Seryozha’s steady gruffness as he watches as a fish twitches to a stop inches from his face. “To eat food in the face of my dead crew is to ask for it to turn to ash and salt in my mouth,” Zhenya says, watching the gasping mouth and twitching gills of the fish with distant coldness. “I betray the memories of my men should I nourish myself without making proper remembrance of their sacrifice.”

His words are met with a long silence punctuated by the final shudder of the dying fish. **_EAT, THEN GIVE REMEMBRANCE_** , Sid says, a new note tingeing his words and softening their edges. It is a curious gentleness, and Zhenya nearly asks, but-- well, no. He rolls carefully onto his knees and hands and then settles back onto his heels. When he picks up the fish, it’s still cold and slick, and he tries not to see his crew in the glazed, dead eyes staring at him. Zhenya stands to chase down the other fish still upon the bank, and two more exit the river. He catches them and closes their gills to give them the most merciful death he can-- he will be quite hungry, he suspects, when his water-bloat dies down-- and three more jump to him.

“That’s enough,” he says gruffly. There is a long pause as the fish slip back into the river without the god’s invisible hand to hold them above. **_ONLY FOUR FISH?_ ** Sid asks doubtfully.

“...Yes,” Zhenya answers. _Only_ four fish? “I will eat well tonight, thank you for your gift.”

 **_BUT I AM GIVEN AT LEAST A DOZEN FISH WHEN YOU GIVE YOUR OFFERINGS TO ME IN MY TEMPLE,_ ** Sid says slowly. **_HOW CAN YOU CLAIM THAT FOUR IS ENOUGH?_ **

Zhenya’s brow furrows. “The hunger of the gods is far different than ours,” he says. “Why would we give you a meal fit for a human? Yours must be greater in all ways.”

A doubtful silence meets his words, and then, **_TO LIVE IN SERVICE OF A GOD IS TO BE TREATED AS MINE. YOU WILL NOT WANT FOR FOOD OR ANY OTHER NEED._ **

“I am not wanting,” Zhenya assures him desperately, and Sid subsides. He stands and gathers his tunic hem in his off hand, dropping the fish into the drape of it to carry them easily back to the boat. “Except for a firelight, I suppose,” he says as the realization strikes him.

**_WHY DO YOU HAVE NEED OF A FIRE?_ **

Zhenya’s lips tighten with irritation. The god sounds like a child, totally ignorant of the simplest facts, and it burns at him that such a being now dictates his life. “Do we not burn the fish that we sacrifice to you?” he snaps. “I know of no god of the sea that receives their offerings in another way.”

 **_KEEP A RESPECTFUL TONGUE IN YOUR HEAD WHEN SPEAKING TO ME_** , Sid says, a sharp edge to his voice before he concedes, **_BUT THIS IS A THING KNOWN TO ME_**.

“Then must I fetch my firelight from my boat, or will you assist me and strike a fire from the heavens?” Zhenya asks.

**_IF MY CHAMPION CANNOT LIGHT A FIRE, THEN I HAVE NO USE OF HIM._ **

Grumbling, Zhenya shuffles away from the foliage and through the sand, bitterly kicking the grains up as he slides through the shifting dunes. To sort through the mess of the wreck with one hand should be one indignity too great, but it feels as though he moves from a great distance, and he finds a small knife and a firestarter before the sun has traversed too far. He sets a hasty camp next to the boat, a piece from the tattered sail ripped down and the fish placed upon it, deck timbers snapped up and piled roughly into a bed for the fire.

As he works to clean the fish and cook them, Zhenya’s arm hairs rise as though in a mighty storm, and he feels the portentous weight of the god’s attention upon him. He ignores it as best he can, eating through sheer force of habit rather than any particular desire.

 **_WHAT WILL YOU DO TO REMEMBER YOUR CREW?_ ** the god asks when Zhenya is on his last fish. The question cuts deep, flaying him open and stoppering his throat. He tosses aside the final bites of the fish, too disgusted to continue.

“I will build them a sea mark,” Zhenya says. “To show others who sail by this spot the price of a god’s attentions.”

Sid’s reply is a frigid silence, and Zhenya sets to his task. The shape of the waves reveals a shoal to his right so he goes to investigate. It looks long, several hundred paces, and a quick dip into the water reveals that it is no more than knee deep. Satisfied, Zhenya turns inland and slogs through the sand to return to the river. He goes upstream ten lengths and then downstream fifteen before he finds what he’s looking for, a wide and shallow pool filled with rocks, some as small as his fist and some as long as he is tall.

Zhenya sets aside his tunic and loincloth and throws himself into the ice-cold river. He gasps, muscles seizing, but forces himself to dive under and drag a stone as long as his arm up from the riverbed. One after another, he liberates stones from the muddy sand and drags them up to the banks. Thirteen stones for thirteen men, dead for the hubris of a god. As he touches each, he names it for a crew member and remembers them before digging his heels into the mud and dragging it up onto the bank.

_This is Sergei Gonchar--  Seryozha. When I tired of fishing like the rest of the village and dreamed to become a great warrior, he taught me how to hold a sword, how to balance victory with grace, how to be a man worthy of honor. He also taught me humility, for I have never won an honest bout with him, yet he also kept me from being the fool too many times, in the village and in our travels._

_This is Alexander Ovechkin-- Sasha. When I wished for adventure, and often when I did not, he was there to accompany me. Where trouble led, Sasha followed, with a laugh and a blind leap. He looked for glory as I did, but all he found was the bottom of the sea. He once took a blow to save my life, and never again could he draw a bow because of the injury. He taught me brotherhood and the power of laughter in the face of danger_.

_This is Nikolai Malkin-- Kolya, my uncle. He taught me to fish when my father was on the seas and sat with me as I learned to weave nets during stormy days. He told me the stories of my forefathers who struck forth and took glory from the world in their youth and returned to the village to a life of quiet and peace after, and told me it could be my path as well._

_This is Andrei..._

Despite the frigid water, he is sweating as he stands in the light of the setting sun and looks at the thirteen stones. Satisfied with his spoils, if not the purpose of them, Zhenya shakes what water he can from his skin and allows the rest to sink into his bones, the chill still not matching the emptiness of his heart.

 **_WHY DO YOU LABOR SO FOR THE DEAD?_ ** Sid asks from nowhere as Zhenya grapples with the smallest rock. **_THEY ARE IN THE UNDERWORLD NOW AND HAVE NO THOUGHTS OF EARTHLY EXISTENCE_**.

“Why do we worship the gods and give to them great sacrifice, when they clearly have no thoughts of our earthly existences?” Zhenya grits out, dropping the stone with an irritated huff. He is blinded by a lighting strike not twenty paces before him and deafened by the accompanying clap of thunder. His hair stands on end as his nose is filled with the scent of char from the black mark on the ground, tiny licks of fire dancing on the remains of the earth.

**_I GIVE YOU FOOD AND PURPOSE AND THE OPPORTUNITY TO BE THE GREATEST OF HEROES, JUST AS YOU WISHED, AND THIS IS HOW YOU SPEAK TO ME?_ **

Zhenya turns and walks toward the ship, grinding his teeth in order to trap his anger behind them. The hubris of gods, to believe that he would be grateful for tragedy-- and yet he knows too many tales of heroes struck with misfortune much the same as he has been, and he had so often listened to those with round and wondering eyes, a foolish longing in his heart.

“The gods prefer to repeat the old stories again and again,” Zhenya finally says as he arrives at the ship, climbing onto the tilted deck to rummage for supplies and then fight with the sails. “I had thought it was merely the way of the world, but now I wonder-- do you truly understand us so little? Do you think that we believe the loss of our friends and family is a blessing and not mere capriciousness? The gods may fight amongst themselves but still you are eternally surrounded by your family, never knowing the true pain of their loss.”

Zhenya finally manages to pull down the sail, and he slings it under the deck after he untangles the rigging and winds it into a tidy loop around his arm. He tucks away his knife and clambers down the side of the ship again, taking the rope with him as he returns to his stones. Sid says nothing, and Zhenya expects on each step to be struck down by godly wrath. Instead, though, the air calms and the sea quiets and the hairs on Zhenya’s body finally relax. He carefully knots the rope in blissful silence and loops it about the first rock to haul it to the shoal.

The sun has long set and the near-full moon sits high in the sky by the time the stones are stacked, the lowest anchored in the shoal and the highest settled firmly into place. Zhenya’s limbs ache, but not as much as his heart does, and his face is wet with sea-spray and tears as he steps back to admire his work.

Lightning strikes silently, its arms visible for a heartbeat before Zhenya is entirely blinded, falling back and covering his eyes as he cries out. “Son of a dog, you cursed gods!” he blasphemes, opening his eyes and attempting to blink away the purple streak burned into his vision. It is replaced by a gentle violet glow, and he curses again, rubbing his fists into his eyes until they sparkle. Yet the violet glow still surrounds the sea mark as he opens his eyes again, the stone shining unnaturally purple, with dances of similarly-colored mist drifting forth until blown away in the sea-breeze.

“What have you _done_ ?” howls Zhenya, pounding his fists into the sand as he screams. “Can I not give them a memory without your interference? Why must you interject yourself everywhere? I am _something_ without you!”

 **_PLACE YOUR HAND UPON THE MARK_** , Sid says.

Zhenya snarls at him. “No. I will not do what you command me.”

 **_CONSIDER IT A REQUEST_**.

Chest heaving, eyes blurred, Zhenya sits in the sand and ignores the god. He does not want the thoughtless gifts of the gods, the cruel reminders of his new life.

 **_PLEASE_**.

“Fine,” Zhenya snaps. He stands and brushes the sand from his hands and knees, stepping forward and shuddering as the purple mist brushes his skin and leaves behind tiny sparks. He places his hand on the middle rock, the one he devoted to Sasha, and it burns with the chill of the sea. He opens his mouth to hiss invectives at the god when he heard his own voice, ringing in his ears:

_This is Alexander Ovechkin-- Sasha. When I wished for adventure, and often when I did not, he was there to accompany me._

Zhenya lets out a shuddering scream, a howl of agony like an animal mortally wounded. He collapses forward against the sea mark and his ears are filled with a jumble of sound-- _This is Nikolai-- taught me to fish-- Andrei-- Seryozha-- balance victory with grace--_ as he sobs, held up by the stones just as his crew supported him in life. He knows not how long he weeps for their loss, and he barely remembers the moment of curling up next to the stones and slipping into blissful oblivion.

\------

The god is quiet when Zhenya wakes the next morning, but three fish already await him, covered in sand from their death throes when Sid presumably drove them onto the shore earlier in the morning. He treks to the river to clean them, slake his thirst, and then start a fire. The god’s assistance isn’t required today; among the supplies he had tucked into his belt while on the boat yesterday was a firestone. He eats, stuffing his belly as full as he can, because who knows when the god’s bounty will run out?

Unsurprisingly, nature finally summons him, and he steps behind a tree to empty his bladder.

 **_WHAT ARE YOU_ ** **DOING** ** _,_ ** yelps the voice within Zhenya’s mind, and he yelps in return, his grip tightening uncomfortably in his fear.

“Can a man not piss in peace when he is in service of a god?” he asks, voice too high as he attempts to restart the business he was attending to.

 **_I HAVE A COCK, JUST AS YOU, AND I KNOW IT’S NOT FOR WHATEVER IT IS THAT YOU ARE DOING NOW_** , Sid says, accusatory. **_I DO NOT PARTICIPATE IN SUCH BEHAVIORS._ **

Zhenya regrets, for the first time and certainly not the last, that Sid has given him no physical manifestation to stare incredulously at. “Yet I was told that the gods of the oceans piss upon us, and that is where sea storms come from.”

A silence follows, before Sid says with no little pride, **_WHILE MY MANHOOD IS_ ** **CERTAINLY** **_GREAT ENOUGH TO CREATE THE MIGHTIEST OF STORMS, I CANNOT SAY THAT I HAVE EXPERIMENTED AS SUCH._ **

“Ye gods,” Zhenya mutters to himself, tucking his dick away as he gives it up for a lost cause.

**_WHAT?_ **

“Far be it from me to doubt you, o precious one,” he says louder and with no little heavy humor in his voice. “May I request, in the future, that I am left in peace when having a piss or a shit, though?”

 ** _...WHAT IS A ‘SHIT?’ YOU MORTALS SEEM TO PREFER REFERENCING IT NEGATIVELY. I AM NOT SURE THAT I-- WAIT. WHAT_** **IS** ** _A PISS? THE PURPOSE OF… LETTING WATER FORTH FROM YOUR COCK. YOU STILL HAVE NOT ANSWERED THIS._** Sid’s indignation rings loud in his words, childish and ungodly.

Zhenya sighs. “Don’t you gods drink the best of wines and ales? Where does it-” he shakes a now empty hand into the air aimlessly, “where does it come out of?”

**_COME OUT OF?_ **

Zhenya grinds his teeth as he forces a smile. There is no peace for the god’s chosen ones, his mother used to say, but he had never expected _this._ “Tell me where I should be travelling to, o mighty one, and I shall teach you of the ways of pissing and shitting,” and he marvels at the things he must say now to serve this god.

 **_THERE IS A CLIFF TWO DAYS’ TRAVEL NORTH OF HERE WHERE THE ALBATROSS GO TO NEST. FOLLOW THE SAND AND YOU WILL FIND IT_**.

“And what will I be doing with the albatrosses?” Zhenya asks acerbically. “You will whip me beyond the gates of the underworld before I will harm an albatross, so be careful in what you expect from me, god or not.”

 **_SAILORS AND THEIR SUPERSTITIONS,_ ** Sid says, amused enough that Zhenya’s hackles go up. **_IT IS NOT A REQUIREMENT, THOUGH IT IS THE MOST EXPEDITIOUS ROUTE FOR WHAT YOU MUST DO. BUT FIRST YOU MUST FIND THE NESTS, AND TELL ME OF THESE… STRANGE HUMAN CUSTOMS._ **

\------

The sun beats down hotly upon Zhenya’s back on his second day of travel. Every inch of his body aches; he had not realized how strongly his muscles must fight the shifting sand, and while yesterday was difficult, today is _miserable_. The sand threatens to burn his bare feet on every step, just as his skin feels crisp from the scorching air, and once against Zhenya curses the loss of his sandals and armor and toga in the storm, leaving him but a tunic and loincloth to protect him.

More torturous than the physical pains are the mental. The god has been incessantly curious, insisting on an answer for every tiny thing that Zhenya does and offering completely unhelpful and unreasonable solutions should he think Zhenya is suffering or choosing a slightly less than optimal path. The god is finally quiet now, in a snit because Zhenya had resorted to merely grunting in response to anything that Sid said.

Zhenya’s neck is bent, gaze focused on the next shifting step, so he pauses to roll away the ache there and wipe his brow. He startles at the sight of a sea-stack and its mother cliff in front of him, and he turns back to see the curve of the beach that had concealed this from him. The air about the stack and the cliff teem with activity, though he isn’t close enough yet to see how many are albatrosses. He will easily reach the spot in the next hour, he estimates, but then he recalls how loud and loathsomely-scented such a flock can be and his lip involuntarily curls.

“I will stop here for the night and wait until the morrow to pester the albatrosses,” Zhenya announces, politely ignoring the wordless complaint that echos between his ears. “Will you cease your mysterious avoidance of the topic and explain to me why I am here?”

 **_EAT YOUR DINNER_** , Sid grumbles, and Zhenya rolls his eyes at the sky. He fetches his dinner-- fish that leap eagerly into his hand-- and prepares it in silence, and he is halfway through it before Sid deigns to speak again. **_YOU MUST ACQUIRE A FEATHER FROM AN ALBATROSS THAT HAS NEVER TOUCHED THE GROUND_**.

Zhenya’s mouth drops open. “The _feather_ cannot have touched the ground, or the _bird_?” he asks. Neither seems like a favorable option.

 **_THE FEATHER_** , Sid says. **_AND TRUST ME, I WILL KNOW IF YOU SELECT INCORRECTLY_**.

“I have no doubt,” Zhenya mutters, because if this god knows one thing, it’s how to drive him absolutely insane. “Have you any suggestions on how to acquire such a feather?”

 **_IF MY CHAMPION CANNOT FIND A SOLUTION ON HIS OWN, THEN HE IS HARDLY READY TO STAND IN THE FIELD OF BATTLE IN MY NAME_**.

“Odd,” Zhenya says thoughtfully, “as the last time that I saw ritual combat, in no part were they plucking birds, preferring instead the more direct method of trying to make the other bleed to death as expeditiously as possible.”

 **_THEN A BIRD SHOULD POSE A FAR LESSER CHALLENGE FOR YOU_** , Sid says brightly. Zhenya attempts to remember if there is a trickster god of the sea amongst the pantheon, but none come to mind.

Zhenya lays down to sleep not longer after dousing the fire-- if it could be called sleep, such a restless curse, filled with his crew pleading with him to save them and the sound of wood cracking under the strength of waves-- and wakes, exhaustion still sitting deep in his bones, as the first light of dawn puddles over the horizon. He stretches as he eyes up the sea stack. It looks calm now, the birds still lethargic from sleep; perhaps striking quickly will gain him the advantage. He shrugs to himself and gathers together his meager belongings before setting out.

The sun is well up and the birds astir when he arrives to the foot of the sea stack. There is no way that he can climb it; he has no head for heights and no rope to loop around juts of rock to steady himself. So-- his only option is to bring the birds to him.

“A fish, please?” Zhenya asks, faced turned to the sky.

 **_AH, SO YOU DO HAVE MANNERS_** , Sid says.

Zhenya sticks out his tongue at nothing as a fish thrashes its way onto the beach. Immediately, a horde of birds descends, but not a single albatross. “Maybe a few more,” he adds.

 ** _SO NEEDY._** More birds descend as the bounty of fish increases, the surface of the sea bubbling like a pot left too long on the fire, and finally an albatross joins. Zhenya shifts around to his right, until he is directly behind the albatross, and charges forward. His reaching arms are met with emptiness as the entire flock explodes upwards, and he sprints fruitlessly after them, sand spraying dramatically behind him as he runs comically slow, attempting to snatch the albatross’ tail. It swoops up and away from his grasp thanks to a favorable wind, and Zhenya grumbles as he turns back to the frenzied feeding.

He comes closer to success with the next albatross, his hands maybe passing within one length of the bird before it arcs into the blueness above. The third one leaps into the air as Zhenya’s fingers brush its tail, and as Zhenya pursues, he comes closer and closer, but a kind wind takes it from him. It’s at that moment he realizes he has run over a dozen lengths down the beach chasing the bird that has taken a turn out over the water. He screams in frustration, the sound echoing in the stillness around him and lifting away the flock in fear.

 **_IT WOULD BE SIMPLER TO KILL ONE,_ ** Sid says. He sounds-- curiously neutral, when Zhenya expected snide derision to arrive at any time at his flailing “stupid mortal” performance. **_I AM SURE ONE WILL HOLD STILL TO SACRIFICE ITSELF TO THE CAUSE_**.

Zhenya’s jaw drops as the truth appears to him, in a simple, whole shape. “You have been driving the birds to fly just beyond my reach!”

 **_HAVE I?_ ** Sid says innocently. **_I CAN ASSURE YOU, THOUGH, SHOULD YOU AGREE TO GIVE ONE A MERCIFUL DEATH, IT WILL AWAIT ITS END GRACEFULLY._ **

“Never,” Zhenya vows, voice shaking in his rage. “Never, never, not if you ask, not if any blessed or cursed god asks, not even if my mother herself goes to her knees before me and begs.” The words do nothing to encapsulate the fury thrumming through his heart, flushing his face, burning his fingertips.

 **_I COULD SMITE YOU_** , Sid offers, still curiously neutral, and a flash of soundless lightning strikes but four lengths before Zhenya and blinds him. When he blinks away the jagged purple line from his vision, the sand there is burnt and melted and fused, tangible evidence of a god’s fury.

“Then smite me,” Zhenya says. The fury has turned to a pure calmness. There is no understanding the gods and their whims; there is only acceptance of their insanity, and while he will bend to do a thousand tiny senseless things for the god, he will not do _this_.

He is wondering why his death is taking so long when an albatross swoops out of the sky to perch delicately on the lump of fused sand. It evaluates him, turning its head to look at him first with one eye and then the other, but does not move otherwise.

“ _I will not kill it,_ ” Zhenya grits between his teeth.

 **_THEN STEP FORWARD AND PLUCK A FEATHER FROM IT WHILE IT LIVES_** , Sid says. **_I WOULD SUGGEST FROM ITS BACK, TO ENSURE THAT IT HAS NOT TOUCHED THE EARTH AND REMAINS PURE_**.

Zhenya swallows thickly, pushing down the invective that threatens to crawl up from his boiling belly at the god’s relentless torturing of him. He takes one wary step forward, which is met only by the bird fluffing its feathers and resettling them, so he takes another and another.

The albatross spreads its wings to their full length as Zhenya steps within his own arms’ reach of the bird. The span of its wings is nearly twice Zhenya’s height, and its beak snaps within easy reach of his belly. It doesn’t leap into flight as he half-expects to, so he cautiously leans forward to reach to the bird’s back. It squawks warningly, Zhenya twitching and freezing at the sound, but protests no more as he singles out a single perfect feather exactly at the center of its back. He whispers a quick prayer and an apology and _yanks_ , and the albatross barrels into him as it leaps into the air, knocking the breath from his body and his body to the sand.

 **_DO NOT LET IT TOUCH THE EARTH!_ ** Sid shrieks, a useless command given that Zhenya cannot tell which way is up versus which way is his ass at the present moment.

When he rights himself, he finds that he had clutched the feather protectively onto his chest and fallen onto his side in the sand, sparing the feather from an earthly fate by mere finger-lengths.

“Ha,” Zhenya says, sitting up before puffing his chest in pride as he cradles the feather. “So many worries for a god. Do you not trust in the champion you have chosen? Perhaps a lesser mortal would have let the feather touch the earth, but not I!” He holds the feather aloft and yelps as the wind nearly blows it from his fingers.

 **_IT IS GOOD THAT I DID NOT CHOOSE A LESSER MORTAL THEN, I SUPPOSE,_ ** Sid says pertly. **_IT CANNOT EVER TOUCH THE GROUND, SO TAKE GREAT CARE WITH IT OR ELSE YOU WILL HAVE TO RETURN, AND PERHAPS NEXT TIME I WILL NOT BE SO KIND AS TO ASSIST YOU_**.

“It matters not to me,” Zhenya says airily. “I have no doubt that I could easily take a feather without any interference from you.” Another great gust threatens to tear the feather from his grasp, and he tightens his fingers around the shaft until it nearly cracks.

 **_A PITY YOU WILL NOT PROVE YOUR BOASTS TODAY_** , Sid says when the wind dies down. Damn tricky god, always trying to trip Zhenya up. **_INSTEAD, IT IS TIME FOR YOUR NEXT TASK_**.

“Not a word of thanks or a moment of rest?” Zhenya gripes. Twisting the quill of the feather between his fingers calms the irritation rising in him, and so he does that, watching the rounded end of the feather flick back and forth as he reverses directions.

 **_THANK YOU, AND I BELIEVE YOU HAVE SAT UPON YOUR ASS LONG ENOUGH THAT IT CAN BE CONSIDERED A MOMENT_**.

If this god is anything, he is implacable and stubborn. “Fine. Where do I travel next?” There is still most of a day’s worth of sunlight left, despite the god forcing him to chase uselessly after birds. The thought is interrupted by the rumble of Zhenya’s stomach, loud enough that surely even Sid heard it.

 **_TO THE OCEAN, FOR FOOD TO BREAK YOUR FAST,_ ** Sid says. **_AND THEN FAR TO THE SOUTH, THREE WEEKS’ BIRD FLIGHT, TO A SACRED COVE_**.

At least three more weeks with the god. “Where is the food?” Zhenya asks glumly. “And perhaps the nearest town, so that I can gather provisions for a longer trip.”

**_WHAT DO YOU MEAN BY PROVISIONS?_ **

\------

Three weeks’ bird flight translates to nearly four weeks’ journey for Zhenya, some time lost in the shifting sands of the beach and the rest sacrificed on a detour to a small village. He stayed long enough to purchase sea-bread, dried meat, and a sweet apple using corroded coins swept onto the beach by thunderous waves before scurrying away from their suspicious glances back to the peaceful isolation of the ocean. Some days are filled with chatter, usually endless questions from the god about what mortal lives are like. Other days are mostly quiet, the god short-tempered and snappy, and one day was filled with chilly silence after Zhenya reflexively genuflected towards a shrine of a nameless crossroad god as he passed it.

On the quiet days, Zhenya wonders what fate awaits him, what fight he will be locked into finishing for the god. With more unease, he wonders what he will be armed with-- does Sid understand the necessity of swords and shields for those without the powers of the gods? Sometimes, he tries to tease information from Sid in return for that which he offers freely, but Zhenya quickly realizes his questioning is the most effective method to convince the god to be quiet and leave him be. He feels thoughtful-- and _lonely_ \-- and trapped between the few men he sees and hastily avoids and the god he doesn’t see at all. His purely mortal existence already simmers with the taste of the unknown as animals sacrifice themselves for his meals and the very elements bend to his needs, like the rain that carefully falls outside of a perfect circle about his shoulders. Zhenya sees families from a distance, toddling children followed indulgently by women while men strike off to hunt, always circling back to their wives. That was going to be his future after earning his glory at sea-- now, he savors every bright morning and clean sea breeze, because very soon it will be his last.

Zhenya is deep in contemplation when Sid whispers, **_HERE._ **  It is the first thing the god has said all day, and Zhenya starts out of his thoughts and looks around. He had expected a mighty temple-- surely the god is ready to finally show himself honestly and introduce his champion to his following. Yet Zhenya sees no temple, near or far, just a shallow cove choked with kelp and a sea mark, half tumbled down, standing upon a small, grassy hill sitting above the sand. In fact, there are no signs in the least of any town or hunting party, and the forest past the beach looks chokingly thick and untouched.

“Where am I?” he asks, a veneer of idle curiosity badly masking desperate interest.

 **_THIS IS A HOLY PLACE_** , Sid says. **_SOMETHING-- GREAT AND IMPORTANT HAPPENED IN THIS COVE. NOW THE KELP IS BLESSED, AND YOU WILL GATHER IT AND WEAVE IT INTO YOUR HOLY GARMENTS._**

“ _What_?” Zhenya asks in disbelief. “Does my tunic not suffice?”

 **_THIS IS NOT A NEGOTIATION_** , Sid says. Zhenya despairs; his skin crawls at the thought of kelp sliding along it instead of cotton, slimy and chilling even in the bright summer sun. **_THIS IS WHAT YOU MUST DO FOR ME_**.

Gods be damned, but he’ll do it, even if he hates it. “Fine,” he snaps, dropping his belt pouch carefully-- he has no desire of allowing the albatross feather within to even begin to approach the ground-- and starting to untie his belt. “I presume you have some strange instructions I must follow?”

 **_‘STRANGE INSTRUCTION?’_ ** Sid says, each word dripping with indignance. **_ALL RITUALS AND MAGIC COME WITH REQUIREMENTS TO PROVE WORTHINESS AND SHOULD NOT BE MALIGNED_**.

“You just wish to make a fool of me,” Zhenya mutters as he yanks his tunic over his head, self-consciously smoothing his hair down after. “As I know that _you_ design the requirements for your own rituals.”

 **_GET IN THE WATER_** , Sid snaps.

Zhenya rolls his eyes, shedding his loincloth before wiggling his toes deeply into the sand. “But it is so warm here on the beach! Why should I go into the cold water when I can enjoy the gentle sun?”

A gust whips up from nowhere, strong enough that Zhenya must stagger back and close his eyes against the stinging sand it carries. He shouts as frigid water douses him, and the wind disappears entirely as he stands, shivering and scrubbing at his eyes.

 **_WELL!_ ** Sid says brightly. **_IT WOULD APPEAR THAT THERE IS NO WARMTH UPON THIS BEACH, SO YOU MIGHT AS WELL GO FOR A SWIM_**.

With a huff, Zhenya sweeps at the sand clinging to his legs and itching in a poor attempt to delay. He runs out of leg far before Sid runs out of patience, and so he reluctantly strikes out towards the waterline.

Unlike the water Sid blew at him, the cove is warm and inviting, shallow enough to hold the sun’s heat, and Zhenya dives in gratefully, sinking low to swim in the shallows just to avoid the cooler breeze. About four lengths from the shore is where the kelp forest begins, and Zhenya shudders at the slippery glide of the leaves against his skin. He grasps the nearest stalk and pulls, but now the water is deep enough that his feet do not touch, and his hands slip from the plant with a jerk to nearly hit his face. He snarls at the kelp and swims back to shore, the cold breeze springing bumps across his skin and shrinking his manhood when he stands to climb the beach and dig through his pile of belongings.

The knife he grabs makes much quicker work of the kelp-- he dives again and again to chop the kelp into lengths around his own height, soon returning to shore with an armful clutched between both arms to prevent any stalks from slipping away and his knife clenched in his teeth. When he dumps the kelp well above the high tide line, Zhenya takes his knife from his mouth and asks, “How much should I gather?”

 **_NO MORE THAN THIS, EACH TIME_** , Sid says. **_THE KELP MUST BE FRESH AND REMAIN WET AS YOU WORK IT, OR ELSE THE MAGIC IS LOST._ **

Zhenya scowls as he realizes he will have to make many trips ending in chilled skin as he dries off in the sea breeze. “Of course, your holiness,” he grits through teeth clenched from the force of his shivers. “What is your next wish?”

**_DO YOU KNOW HOW TO TIE NETTING?_ **

Zhenya rolls his eyes, any charitable feelings towards the gods disappearing as quickly as the heat from his body. “No, I have fished and sailed for years upon the seas and yet have no knowledge of creating or repairing nets,” he says, voice thick with sarcasm. A tiny lightning-bolt arcs between his hands, and he yelps at the tingling sensation.

**_YOU MUST SIT AND TIE NETTING FROM THE KELP, AND THE MAGIC OF THIS PLACE WILL SEE TO THE REST._ **

Zhenya eyes the kelp dubiously, which looks to be wilting unnaturally quickly and drying out even more so, and sighs. As infuriating as the god is, he hasn’t lied to Zhenya yet, so Zhenya settles in the sand next to the pile of greenery and starts. He bubbles with irritation as he begins to wrap and tie the main stalks around his forearm to start the first row. It goes as expected-- slimy, cold, gross, but somehow working, thanks to divine intervention-- until his third explosive sigh as he thinks of another tiny injustice the god has done to him. The kelp in his hand dissolves into ash, leaving a sooty streak on Zhenya’s palm, and the beginnings of the net follows suit.

“What ails you, that you treat those sworn to you with such infantile rudeness?” Zhenya shouts, crossing his arms with a huff. “I am following your every whim and yet you chase the birds that I must catch from me and now destroy the kelp as I work it. Does my frustration and powerlessness _please_ you? Am I nothing but an amusing distraction while your followers feed your fires?”

**_THE MAGIC IN THIS PLACE IS BORN OF MY POWER. IT SENSES YOUR WILL AND YOUR FEELINGS AND RESPONDS ACCORDINGLY. TO THINK ILL OF ME IS TO STRANGLE THE MAGIC._ **

“I do not think ill of you,” Zhenya protests automatically, because he may be mortal but he is not _stupid_.

 **_YOU DO NOT?_ ** There is no challenge in the question like Zhenya expected, just quiet curiosity.

Zhenya nearly staggers under a wave of embarrassment as he thinks of the god ensuring he is fed, giving him coins from wrecks to pay for what he cannot provide in nature, and keeping him safe from weather. Sid has provided in his clumsy, immortal way, yet Zhenya fixates on annoyances that, frankly, he would find amusing should it happen to any but him. His throat closes off before he chokes out, “You have fine taste in fish.”

 **_IS THAT SO_** , Sid says, quietly amused, as the kelp shimmers and thickens as it shades from sad brown to vibrant green.

“It pains me to admit it,” Zheya declares, and he can _feel_ the life drain from the kelp, “but on occasion, you also have an acceptable sense of humor.” The magic thrums through the stalks again, and Zhenya breathes easier. “I fear, though, that this is all I know of you. If I must sing your praises while I knot this net, I do require assistance.”

 **_AND YET HOW AM I TO KNOW WHAT TO SHARE TO YOU OF A GOD’S LIFE, WITHOUT ANY KNOWLEDGE OF YOUR OWN?_ ** “Without any knowledge” is so egregious a lie as to strain Zhenya’s chest from trying not to laugh. The god has poked and prodded his way into every crevice of Zhenya’s life that interested him for the past moon’s cycle, and to have the audacity to claim to the contrary is very… god-like.

“Fine, then I shall trade you one story for another,” Zhenya concedes, because the closest he can be to his kith and kin now is to tell the stories of his time with them, and he is not above the comfort that it offers. “But you must take your turn first, or else all this kelp shall turn to dust.”

A thoughtful silence falls as Zhenya works a starting loop and three more knots upon his arm. Finally, Sid says, **_I TOLD YOU THAT THIS COVE IS SACRED TO ME. THIS IS WHERE MY GODHOOD BEGAN, BORN INTO THESE WATERS AND CRADLED BY THEM UNTIL I WAS READY TO RETURN TO OLYMPUS._ ** He pauses, and then, **_NOW YOU MUST SPEAK OF A TIME OF YOUR YOUTH_**.

Zhenya gapes. That was-- that was _nothing_! His indignation dries the kelp up and blows it away as he protests, “I give you all the information you desire, and yet you cast me piteous crumbs in return! I shall never complete a single net if this is all you shall provide!”

 **_I TOLD YOU OF THE MATERIAL DETAILS,_ ** Sid says stiffly. **_I FAIL TO SEE HOW ANY FURTHER DETAIL WOULD ASSIST_**.

Zhenya can sense, now, when the god is being stubborn because he is truly ignorant compared to when he is stubborn because he cannot concede his wrongness even if his existence depends on it. This is undoubtedly a case of the second, each word dripping with reluctance and useless pride and sheer, unmitigated pigheadedness in the face of all evidence. “Fine,” Zhenya declares, starting the netting for the third time. “Then I shall tell a story. I was born in a small village and raised by my parents until I was ready to go adventuring. Your turn.”

 **_WHAT!_ ** Sid squawks, and Zhenya wrestles down his victorious grin at the sound, meekly twisting stalks of kelp into sturdy knots.

“I told you of the material details,” Zhenya parrots innocently. “I fail to see how any further detail would assist.”

 **_YOU--_ ** Sid hisses, trailing off into unintelligible grumbling punctuated by distant thunderclaps. **_YOU ARE LUCKY THAT MY MOOD DOES NOT INFLUENCE THE KELP, OR ELSE THE ENTIRE COVE WOULD BE STRICKEN_**.

“Is that so,” Zhenya says peaceably, counting the knots he has and stretching a pair to measure the distance between them. Maybe ten or twenty more, so it will be long enough to wrap around his shoulders…

 **_YOU MAKE A MOCKERY OF YOUR SACRED DUTY AND A FOOL OF YOURSELF WHEN YOU BEHAVE THIS WAY_** , Sid rages.

Zhenya tuts. “The only fool here is the one who had his own poor behavior turned back upon him,” he says disapprovingly, and then groans as the nearly-finished starter row withers up and blows away. “Look at what you’ve made me do! If I am to make any progress today, you must learn to tell better stories.” He reaches for a new strand of kelp and frowns as his questing fingers only meet sand. He has spent his bounty upon the wind, every strand of kelp blown away uselessly while the sun rose to a sweltering midday height. “I shall gather more kelp, and while I do so, you can contemplate a better tale of your life than that pitiful attempt,” Zhenya orders, and as he sloshes into the water, he swears he can hear a muttered **_MLEH MLEH MLEH, DO WHAT THE MORTAL SAYS_ ** floating on the breeze.

Half an hour later, Zhenya drops a new bundle of kelp upon the sands and shakes the seawater from his hair. This time, the cool water drying on his skin brings not shivers but relief from the beating sun. Zhenya looks down to see his pale chest reddening and curses to himself as he tugs his tunic back on. Sunburn is the last thing he needs, especially on the delicate, pale skin usually safely hidden by his tunic and loincloth.

A strange noise rings through the air, and Zhenya says, “What?” as he settles back onto the sand next to the kelp.

 **_NOTHING_** , Sid says, and Zhenya frowns. Sid continues before he can press, though, saying, **_I HAVE… RECONSIDERED YOUR PROPOSITION AND I SUPPOSE I SHALL AGREE, IN ORDER TO COMPLETE THIS TASK WITHIN THE NEXT MOON’S CYCLE AND END YOUR CEASELESS COMPLAINTS_**.

“I eagerly await your best attempt,” Zhenya says.

 **_I WAS BORN OF A GODDESS, BROUGHT TO QUICKENING BY THE LOVE OF ANOTHER GODDESS_** , Sid says, and immediately Zhenya wracks his brain for any tales of gods born of a pair of women, but none come to mind before Sid continues. **_AS IS THE WAY OF THE GODS, I WAS RELEGATED TO MAKE MY OWN DIVINITY AFTER MY BIRTH. LEFT IN THIS COVE, I BROUGHT FORTH THE KELP TO CRADLE ME, SHOALS OF FISH TO FEED ME, AND SUNNY DAYS TO GROW STRONG BENEATH. WE DO NOT GROW LIKE YOU MORTALS, LINKED TO THE PASSAGE OF TIME, NOR ARE WE SO LIMITED BY FOOD AS YOU ARE. I ATE A HUNDRED THOUSAND FISH AND GREW TO ADULTHOOD, FED BY THE SEA AND SO BOUND TO IT._ **

“How long did it take you to eat so many fish?” Zhenya asks, fascinated, as he loops and ties knots with thoughtless familiarity.

 **_FIVE SUNRISES AND SUNSETS_** , Sid answers, ignoring Zhenya’s incredulous laugh as he continues. **_AND WHEN I WAS FULL-GROWN, I CALLED A MIGHTY STORM AND BROUGHT THE SEAS TO A FURIOUS FROTH, TO PROVE THAT I COULD SURVIVE THE TEMPEST. THE WINDS OF THAT STORM RETURNED ME TO OLYMPUS, AND SO I WAS A GOD_**.

“That is a _much_ better story,” Zhenya says approvingly. “Though it is not one I think I have ever heard of any god. How do I know you tell the truth?”

 **_GODS CAN HAVE SECRETS, JUST AS MORTALS DO_** , Sid says, and his voice is sad and heavy. A somber silence falls before he adds, **_NOW YOU MUST TELL A STORY_**.

“Very well,” Zhenya concedes, handily starting on the second row of the net, the kelp shining a healthy, soggy green in his hands. “I told you I have an older brother, Denis?” He waits for a noise of assent from Sid before continuing. “We always were up to entirely too much trouble, in our youth and as adults. Just before I left, he had an idea for a trick to play on Sasha, for the three of us were always causing each other grief. Not a week before, Sasha had hollowed out an apple and placed within it a few bees. He gave it to Denis, who thought the gods themselves were signalling him when the apple began to buzz in his hand. Denis wanted to take back his dignity from Sasha, so he had an idea to transform water to wine. We soaked old bread in the finest vintage we had, until it was dark and soggy, and then laid it out to dry in the sun. Then, we ate that evening with Sasha, and Denis boasted that he had stolen the power of the god of wine himself to change water to wine.”

 **_MORTALS, ALWAYS THINKING THAT YOU CAN TAKE OUR POWERS SO SIMPLY_** , Sid interjects.

Zhenya scowls up at the sky. “Hush, I’m telling the story,” he says, scolding. “So Sasha laughs and asks Denis if he has been hit on the head recently, and Denis says he will provide proof of his powers. I pass Denis the bread I had hidden in my belt pouch, and Denis takes the amphora of water and mutters and cries and shouts to ‘invoke the godly powers,’ which mostly served to disguise the sound and motion of dropping the bread in. Sasha’s jaw dropped as he saw the darkness of wine swirl through the water and overtake it! I nearly broke a rib in my attempts not to laugh at how astounded he was. Denis was-- so proud of himself.” Zhenya feels his voice break on _proud_ as he thinks of Denis, laughing and strutting about, dangling Sasha’s gullibility over him. Now Sasha is dead, for no better reason than so that Sid could take Zhenya as his own, and now Zhenya will face his own death before he sees Denis, or any other member of his family, again.

“Now you must speak,” he says abruptly, forcing the words past the lump in his throat. He is on the fourth row of the net now, and the kelp is healthy and whole.

 **_LET ME THINK_** , Sid says. Zhenya has nearly added another full row when Sid hesitantly continues. **_I HAVE NEVER INTERACTED WITH MORTALS MUCH BEFORE NOW-- NONE OF THE GODS UPON OLYMPUS BOTHER THEMSELVES WITH THE MINUTAE OF MORTAL LIFE-- WHICH IS WHY I KNEW SO LITTLE OF YOUR WAYS, EVEN THE MOST BASIC THINGS LIKE EATING AND SHITTING. EVEN WHEN I STAYED IN THIS COVE DURING THE DAYS OF MY GROWTH, THERE WERE NO VISITORS, NO TRAVELLERS OR SAILORS THAT CAME TO THIS PLACE. SINCE I LEFT THIS PLACE, MY LIGHTNING GUARDS IT SO THAT ONLY THE WORTHY COULD ENTER. BECAUSE OF THIS, SOME TIME PASSED BEFORE I SAW A MORTAL NOT FROM THE DISTANCE OF OLYMPUS. A FISHERMAN HAD SAILED INTO MY COVE--_ ** **THIS** **_COVE-- AND SAW THE STORMS THAT PROTECTED THE MOUTH AND PARTED TO LET HIM PASS THROUGH. HE PRAYED TO ME TO THANK ME FOR THE MERCY I CHOSE TO SHOW HIM, SO I DECIDED TO APPEAR TO HIM._ **

Sid grows thoughtful, voice touched with some kind of wistfulness and something else gentle that Zhenya can’t place. **_HE KNEELED IN HIS BOAT, HANDS RAISED TO THE SKY, AS HE INVOKED ME AND GAVE ME PRAISE. I CAME FROM A LIGHTNING BOLT, TWENTY LENGTHS BEFORE HIS BOAT, AND HE THREW HIMSELF TO LIE ON HIS FACE AND BEG FOR MY BLESSING. I WALKED ACROSS THE WAVES TO HIM AND LIFTED HIM BY THE ARM TO HIS FEET. HE WAS PLEASURABLE TO LOOK AT, WITH A STRONG NOSE AND SLIM, BOYISH CHEEKS. YET HE WAS UNDOUBTEDLY A MAN, STRAPPED WITH MUSCLE AND WITH A FINE BEARD UPON HIS CHIN._ ** Zhenya realizes-- there is _tenderness_ in Sid’s voice as he describes the man, and he wonders-- after all, the proclivities of gods are often not far different from those of mortals-- **_HE TOLD ME THAT HE HAD BEEN TRAPPED UPON THE WATER FOR NEARLY TWO MOON’S CYCLES, AND HE WAS STARVING AND THIRSTY. HE HAD FALLEN ASLEEP AND AWOKE IN THE CRADLE OF MY POWER, AND WISHED TO GIVE ME THANKS FOR THE BLESSING I GAVE UPON HIS LIFE._ **

“Give you thanks, hmm?” Zhenya teases, fingers slipping on the knot he was working. He focuses again, moving slowly and deliberately and distancing himself from his thoughts. “Were they skillful thanks?”

 **_THAT IS NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS_** , Sid says haughtily. **_BUT IF YOU MUST KNOW, I FOUND NO DEFICIENCIES IN HIS OFFERINGS._ **

“So kind,” Zhenya says. “I hope that someday you speak so highly of me as well.” He is surprised to realize it is true, and he focuses again on his netting to distract himself from the disquiet inside.

 **_THAT IS LEFT TO BE SEEN_** , Sid says somberly, and Zhenya swallows heavily. **_REGARDLESS. THAT MAN BECAME MY FIRST AND GREATEST PRIEST,  AND HE BUILT THAT SEA MARK UPON THE HILL BEHIND YOU IN MEMORY OF THE BLESSING HE RECEIVED. AND NOW IT IS AGAIN YOUR TURN TO TELL A STORY OF YOUR LIFE._ **

Throughout the remainder of the day, Zhenya dives for kelp three more times and hears five more stories from Sid, giving up four of his own in return. Most memorable of the stories that Sid tells are of a quarrel he once had with Alectrona that lead to her cursing off all of his hair for nearly six moons-- **_I HAVE NEVER AGAIN BEEN ABLE TO GROW SO FINE A BEARD AS I DID BEFORE THEN_** , Sid laments, and Zhenya snickers at him while he wonders what Sid’s face looks like with or without said hair-- and a hilarious string of misunderstandings that led to him appearing in the form of an eel in the middle of a banquet only to nearly be eaten.

Zhenya works until the sun hangs low and heavy in the sky and his last kelp strand is knotted into the net. He looks at it dubiously; it is a serviceable net, but it will do nothing to protect him from the punishment of the sun, let alone from an opposing champion’s weapon. “This is it?” he asks, and he knows his doubt discolors his voice.

 **_FOR NOW_** _,_ Sid says mysteriously. Damn the gods and their-- _everything_. **_ARE YOU READY FOR YOUR EVENING MEAL?_ **

“No more fish, please,” Zhenya begs. “I tire of it so much that fish chase me in my dreams at night.”

 **_AS YOU WISH_** , Sid says after a long, frigid pause. A sea tern swoops down to land before Zhenya as Sid says, **_FOLLOW THIS BIRD AND IT WILL SHOW YOU TO NOT-FISH_**.

The tern leads him through the dense forest inland of the cove, showing him secret paths through the unruly branches, until he reaches the other side and a rolling field. And, apparently, another godly misunderstanding.

“What is that,” Zhenya says flatly. He is perfectly aware of the answer as his throat closes at the wretched smell and his eyes water at the sight of the bloated corpse, but he is not sure what Sid thinks of it.

 **_DINNER_** , Sid says testily. It is said with a pout heard clearly in his voice, a verbal flounce obviously due to Zhenya rejecting his gift.

“I will die if I eat that,” Zhenya says. “Do you want a dead champion?”

 **_YOU HAVE EATEN SHEEP BEFORE, WHEN YOU VISITED THE VILLAGE FOR ‘PROVISIONS.’_ ** Disdain drips from the final word, all of Sid’s goodwill from earlier in the day completely disappeared.

“Yes, sheep freshly slaughtered, not left rotting upon the ground for untold days!”

**_WHY MUST YOU BE SO PARTICULAR? ARE YOU TRULY SO FRAGILE THAT FOOD WHICH WAS GOOD BUT A DAY AGO WILL KILL YOU? HOW HAVE MORTALS SURVIVED SO LONG, THEN?_ **

“Through a lack of utter stupidity, which seems to be less common of a trait than I once thought it,” Zhenya grumbles. It is underscored by the rumble of his stomach, and he moans, “Can you please lead me to a living sheep? Or perhaps a garden of fruit?”

An affronted silence meets his request, and Zhenya sighs. Touchy gods and their touchy egos be damned, doubly so his softening heart towards them. “Thank you for your kindness in providing for me,” he says delicately. “I know the ways of mortals are mysterious. Please, give me food that will not sicken me, so that I can continue to serve you in good health.”

No answer arrives, though the air still crackles with Sid's irritation. Acquiring dinner must be his own responsibility now, and so Zhenya sets out to return to the cove and catch the dreaded meal of fish. It was too much to hope for, that one day of convivial talk would change Sid, Zhenya thinks, and quiet the thought in case the kelp still listens.

The tern does not help him find a way back, and Zhenya is covered in cuts by the time he thrashes his way from the forest. He throws off his tunic, badly snagged in many places by questing twigs, and dives once more into the water of the cove. The cuts _burn_ against the brine, and Zhenya breaks the surface to gasp raggedly through the pain. The fish dancing through the kelp neither dart unnaturally close nor far away, though Sid’s gaze feels heavy on his back.

Once he has three fish, Zhenya wades back out and evaluates his catch. He sets aside the fattest, shiniest fish before starting his fire and cleaning the other two, dressing once he dries enough to not soak his tunic. Sid still hovers conspicuously over him, setting tiny thunderbolts dashing through the fire as Zhenya works.

When the fish are flirting with becoming charred, Zhenya removes them from the fire and announces, “O glorious Sid, greatest of gods, I beseech you to accept my sacrifice.”

A long silence follows, finally punctuated by a surly, **_WHAT?_ **

“Come eat dinner with me,” Zhenya says. “I don't know how gods like their fish cooked, but that is a simple thing to remedy.” He gestures toward the fish he set aside, feeling self-conscious as always when contemplating whether or not Sid watches his every move or just waits for the embarrassing moments to return his attention to Zhenya.

A sparkle of energy raises the hair on Zhenya’s arms, and Sid says, **_I THOUGHT YOU DIDN’T WANT FISH, AND YET YOU EAT THEM NOW._ **

“You left me with not much choice,” Zhenya says mildly. “And upon reflection, it was ungrateful of me to reject whatever you chose to offer for my meal.” The words burn at his tongue only slightly with their lack of sincerity, and he sneaks a glance at the kelp netting sitting to the side to assure himself it remains whole.

Sid is quiet for a moment. **_YOUR SACRIFICE IS ACCEPTED. PLACE IT WHOLE ONTO THE FIRE, AND IT WILL COME TO ME._ **

No little disappointment blooms in Zhenya as he obeys, throwing the fat and glossy fish whole onto the fire. He remembers so vaguely Sid's only manifestation to him, unearthly beautiful and dreamlike, and it seems an unnecessary cruelty to deny him the opportunity to confirm that faint memory, especially given the story of the fisherman and the one of the beard.

Any irritation is swept away as Sid murmurs, **_THANK YOU_**. A strange warmth gently brushes across his cheek, and the tips of the fire’s flame shade to violet.

“You are most welcome,” Zhenya returns, and peace falls between them again. He watches as the scales of the fish curl, charring away until the flesh smokes and also catches. The stench is overpowering, and Zhenya breathes through his mouth as the sacrifice shrinks and shrinks, shedding ash that floats into the sky to join the stars. The moment feels unfinished, words unsaid, but neither speak until long after the fish is nothing but ash-covered bone.

\------

Zhenya rises with the sun the next morning, rolling over to see a broad leaf piled high with grapes next to him. A gull swoops down to drop another from its beak onto the pile, and Zhenya scrubs at his eyes. The grapes remain, though, and he shrugs to himself and digs a piece of sea bread from his belt pouch. A piece of cheese would not go amiss, but he has no desire to press the god’s good favor. “Thank you,” he says to nothing, voice rusty with sleep, and his only response is a soft sea-breeze ruffling through his hair.

When his fast is broken, he turns with dread to examine whatever remains of yesterday’s work. He expects to see perhaps a pile of dust, mostly blown away in the night, or else withered and dried kelp loosely knotted together. What he sees instead is-- a bolt of fine, shimmering cloth? Zhenya picks it up, and it undoubtedly has the weight of the kelp net he made yesterday plus the crossed pattern of netting woven at angles to the usual warp and weft standing out in relief against the texture of the fabric. Yet it slips warm and soft between his fingers, plush as the finest wool against his skin and as green as new leaves. “What-- how--” he attempt to ask, stymied each time by the mystery of the cloth he holds.

 **_DID I NOT TELL YOU THAT MY MAGIC WOULD COMPLETE YOUR WORK?_ ** Sid asks. **_IN THE NIGHT, THE SWEET SALT AIR AND THE BREATH OF THE OCEAN CREATED FABRIC FIT FOR A GOD’S CHAMPION. IT IS LIGHT BUT STRONGER THAN IT LOOKS, WITH THE BEST PROTECTION THAT I CAN OFFER WOVEN INTO IT JUST AS THE SHAPE OF THE NETTING YOU CREATED ALSO IS_**.

“I must admit, I would much rather wear this than the simple kelp fishnet,” Zhenya says through his shock. “But I did not expect such a favorable result.”

 **_YE OF LITTLE FAITH_** , Sid says, the edges of the words fluttering with his teasing. **_BUT THAT IS ENOUGH TALK; TIME FOR YOU TO WORK, OR ELSE YOU SHALL NEVER LEAVE THIS COVE_**.

That day and the next pass quickly, one spent knotting a new net for a second bolt of cloth and the second spent using a fishbone needle and fine, young kelp strands to sew the bolts together to form a new tunic, cut long to the knee and slit up each side in the style of his clan. Zhenya laments to himself that the god seems too driven to allow him time to weave a toga and appear a proper man and citizen, but it is not all bad; Sid offers several kindnesses in return for his driving haste. He stirs up a swarm of eels for Zhenya’s dinner on the second night, and each morning Zhenya awakes next to fresh-picked fruit to break his fast with. When Zhenya forgets to replace his old tunic after a midday dive and his back turns red and tender from the harsh sun, Sid sends him a bird carrying a fat, prickly leaf filled with a soothing sap that Zhenya gratefully smears across his back.

By the evening of the third day, Sid remains mysterious, but-- not quite in the same way. To Zhenya’s frustration, he still cannot discern the true nature of Sid, what name he is known by on mortal grounds. But he does know that Sid will easily throw tantrums at unexpected changes and is infuriated by others acting in ways that do not adhere to his mysterious rules, and still he does not understand many of the needs of mortals. At the same time, he is loving and kind, more so than Zhenya ever could think a god could be, and led by a strong sense of justice and the need to continually better himself. It is a strange mix for a god, Zhenya thinks, and certainly a memorable one, yet it matches with no sea-god that Zhenya can think of. **_GODS CAN HAVE SECRETS, JUST AS MORTALS DO_** , Sid had said, and now Zhenya is thirsty for Sid’s secrets, a starving man led to a banquet table yet unable to eat. Zhenya wonders what Sid learned of him in return, if Sid had seen all the truths of his soul from their very first meeting, or if he was as much as mystery to Sid as Sid was to him. Did he have any secrets from Sid? It is impossible to know for sure and just as impossible to ask.

On the morning of the fourth day, Zhenya surveys his work. Spread on the sand before him is a tunic, a loincloth, and a pair of sandals, all the same rich shade of kelp green. The tunic remains the strangely soft material conjured from the kelp netting, and the loincloth is even softer and smoother still, with less texturing of netting across the warp and weft. The sandals made yesterday grew firm in the night, creating a stiff sole and dependable laces from toes to halfway up the calf in the style of soldiers.

Some tiny part of Zhenya resists the clothing; perhaps he should take the time, despite Sid’s impatience, to weave a toga-cloth as well. But no, that lack, though irritating, is not the cause of his reluctance. Zhenya looks down at the tunic he still wears, ragged from months of adventuring, and sees the younger man that left the fishing village of his youth in pursuit of glory. He sees his crew, loyal men and his friends for many years, that wore garments like this plan cotton tunic and not like the shimmering green riches sitting before him. Again, he must cast away his past to serve the god, and a tiny resentment stirs in his breast.

 **_ZHENYA_** , Sid prompts, his tone soft but implacable.

Zhenya sets his jaw and tugs the tunic over his head, dropping it to the sand beside him before he unties his loincloth. Brusquely, he ties on the new and then tugs the tunic over it, securing his old belt and belt pouch over it. He sits to tie on the sandals, and he raises his chin to avoid looking at himself once he is dressed.

 **_IT IS TIME TO DEPART_** , Sid says. **_WELL DONE, MY CHAMPION_**.

“I am not yet finished,” Zheya says, grasping his old clothes within his fist. He goes to the wrack line and kneels, clutching the worn fabric of his old tunic between his fingers as he prays. _To any god that listens, give my crew the peace that I could not. Give me forgiveness for leaving them behind. Strengthen me so that I may meet what lies before me._ He casts the garments into the tiny, swirling waves that lap around his knees, and watches as they are pulled out to sea.

Sid is silent as Zhenya turns to the sea mark next. He had noticed how there was no godly fire about it, how quiet and dull it seemed compared to the mark he built to his crew. It seems only right to bend down before it, tugging aside the stones that has fallen and restacking them in a sturdier shape. He places the final stone atop the mark and falls back, blinded by a violet flash of light. When his eyes clear, just as with the first sea mark, this mark is surrounded with violet mist, the topmost stone glowing from within.

Zhenya stands next to the revitalized mark in his new clothing and surveys the cove before him. He feels… changed by this place, in a way he cannot define. If he closes his eyes, he can feel Sid standing next to him, invisible and immutable. The loss of his crew still throbs in his chest, but for the first time he thinks, _perhaps I am ready for this._

“What next?” he asks his god.

 **_A SHIPWRECK, ANOTHER WEEK SOUTH._ ** From beginnings to endings, Zhenya thinks, and turns to face the south.

\------

On the second day of travel, a sudden chill falls upon the land and sea, summer fading away under the frozen breath of some irate god. While the sun is out, the air hardly bothers Zhenya, but cold in the night is a killer. The first night of terrible cold-- after passing by farmers kneeling desperately amid dying crops all day, his heart pounding with misery for them-- Zhenya stokes his cooking fire instead of dousing it after he’s eaten. Sid has grown quieter as they’ve travelled together, if it could even be called that, usually staying silent after Zhenya has settled in for the night. After three days of constant storytelling while Zhenya netted kelp, it’s disquieting, and he has to stop himself many times from rambling just to fill the air between them.

Today, though, Sid is apparently struck by curiosity. **_FOR WHAT REASON HAVE YOU KEPT THE FIRE ALIGHT?_ **

“To warm me, so that I do not freeze in the night,” Zhenya says. The god’s curiosity is almost _endearing_ , his attentive care of Zhenya simultaneously terrifying and touching. He cannot recall why it was such an annoyance at first-- or even recently-- in the face of Sid’s gentle consideration.

**_IS THAT ALL?_ **

Zhenya thinks to tell him of the soothing sound of fire, the pops and snaps of wood giving itself up to ash and the dancing glimmer of sparks ascending to the heavens to join the stars above. How to explain to a god the way the heat wraps about your skin and yet leaves your back to remember the chill of night? How to convince a god to smell the woodsmoke, to think of the memories of childhood and the telling of tales and the coming together of a family?

“That is all,” Zhenya says, lying down and closing his eyes. Mortals have their secrets just as gods do, and some are best left to stay secret.

He awakes, coughing, in the middle of the night, waving heavy, scented smoke away from his face before he is even conscious. Zhenya scrabbles on all his limbs to the clear air upwind of the fire and lies upon the dirt with his chest heaving as he attempts to understand. Through sleep-fuzzed eyes he sees a storm-petrel swoop down and drop a bag of incense powder from its claws into the fire. Another follows, and another, and another, and Zhenya shouts, “Stop!”

The petrels flutter away, leaving nothing but a guilty silence behind. “What are you doing, Sid?” Zhenya finally asks. His body aches for sleep, but instead he rearranges the fire, equally knocked from its slumber by a dozen bags and resin disks of incense, a truly overwhelming amount that must be worth a small fortune.

 **_MORTALS LIKE INCENSE,_ ** Sid says defensively. **_YOU SACRIFICE TO US THAT WHICH YOU HOLD DEAR. YOU LIED TO ME ABOUT THE PURPOSE OF THE FIRE, AND SO I KNEW THAT WHAT YOU DESIRED WAS INCENSE._ **

“I--” Zhenya stutters to a stop, his mind blank. “How did you know that I was lying? Can you sense it?” It seems far more pressing than other questions like _where did you find the incense_ and _why did you think that much incense was a good idea_.

 **_NO_** , Sid says quietly. **_I KNOW MANY THINGS BEYOND YOUR UNDERSTANDING BUT-- MORTALS ARE SMALL MYSTERIES. WE KNOW ONLY THE BIG TRUTHS OF YOU, NOT THE TINY. I CANNOT SENSE A LIE ANY MORE THAN I CAN FEEL WHAT YOU TOUCH. I-- I HAVE COME TO KNOW YOU, AND IN YOU ALONE I CAN FIND THE FALSEHOODS._ **

_In you alone I can find the falsehoods_. What mortal has held the regard of gods so long for this? Zhenya feels faint, and he turns to press his face into the dirt and reassure himself of his earthly being.

“I thank you for your thoughtfulness,” he mumbles. “But I had no need for incense. There are-- experiences of life that I do not know that I can express well, so I have stayed silent all along about them. That was my lie.”

 **_TELL ME OF THESE EXPERIENCES,_ ** Sid whispers, and as storms dance in the fire, Zhenya speaks of love and family and warmth, so different from the superficial tales he told while knotting the kelp.

The strange-- _truce_ , of sorts, because it feels almost like a ceasefire in a battle Zhenya didn’t know he fought-- continued into the next day, and the next and the next, each not filled with stories but at least punctuated by them. The days past, quicker and more pleasant than before, until Zhenya arrives at a wicked, stony cape of cliffs rising from the last edge of beach beneath his feet.

Four sea marks sit high upon the cliff above the water, and Zhenya suspects many more ships beyond those four remembered met their end unremarked against the rocks in vicious storms.

“I suppose I have arrived to the next task. Am I to sharpen rocks into weapons? Or weave fish into a carpet?” Zhenya asks.

Sid tuts. **_YOU ARE TO DIVE DEEP AND FIND A SHIP LOST TO MY ANGER. FROM IT YOU WILL TAKE THE LIGHT THAT SHINES ETERNAL TO REMEMBER THE SACRIFICE_**.

“Dive… down to where a ship has sunk?” Zhenya asks, panicked. “Sid, I cannot-- I must breathe, I cannot dive into the sea beyond a few lengths without coming up for air.”

 **_I AM AWARE_** , Sid says stiffly, and Zhenya resists the temptation to ask how recently he discovered this fact. **_BUT I HAVE A SOLUTION FOR THAT. GO AND SWIM INTO THE COVE, AND YOU WILL SEE_**.

Zhenya harrumphs, less than pleased with the thought of stripping down and swimming with the unseasonable cold still hanging about. He does it anyway, but he grumbles at length, mostly for Sid’s benefit. The water is deceptively calm as he strikes out towards the nearest jutting point of the cliffs, but Zhenya is wary; water like this can change from peaceable to furious in a second, and he has no better chance than a ship should he be dashed against the rocks.

Zhenya is not sure what to look for or expect-- it seems almost a fruitless endeavor to try and predict what will come next, given how Sid seems to continually surprise him. Despite his careful noncommitment, he gasps in seawater and begins to cough desperately as he sees another person break the surface and swim towards him. He splutters in more seawater, desperately attempting to keep his head above water, before chill hands grasp him about his chest and keep him afloat while he coughs and gasps.

“Thank you,” he finally says to the person, who is fully behind him. His eyes were squeezed shut with the force of his coughs as the other approached, so he knows nothing of them. Yet he does not fear, for truly-- his god is with him.

“You are welcome,” a high, sibilant voice answers. “I see why the gods have asked me to give you breath in water; you fragile mortals are so easily destroyed.”

The hands release Zhenya, and he turns to see a round green face and long, seaweed-like hair surrounding a smile full of shark’s teeth. The mermaid is beautiful in her own strange way,  colored a thousand shades of green, from the delicate pale green of new grass blades about her gills to the rich black-green of ancient maple leaves in the depths of her eyes.

“I thank you for your gift,” Zhenya says warily, eyeing her toothy smile. “But I must ask-- how do you bestow such an ability upon me?”

“Why, a kiss, of course,” the mermaid trills, her sharp-nailed hands coming above the water to twist with glee. She eyes him contemplatively, almost predatorily, as she slowly closes the distance between them.

Zhenya swallows thickly as his heart sinks. “May I have a moment to speak with my god?” he fumbles out eventually as the mermaid stares unblinking at him with her head tilted. She shrugs in reply, lips turning down into a frown before turning and diving beneath the water with a careless flick of her tail that soaks Zhenya’s hair and sends the bitter sting of salt into his eyes.

 **_WHAT IS WRONG? IS SHE NOT COMELY ENOUGH FOR YOU? SHE WAS THE FINEST OF HER CLAN, BUT I CAN SUMMON ANOTHER FROM A DIFFERENT CLAN THAT YOU MAY FIND MORE PLEASING_**. Sid’s worry, like that of an over-involved shield brother accompanying him to a brothel, would be funny were it not so puzzling. Or frustrating.

“She was beautiful,” Zhenya says, because he is not blind. “But-- my tastes run to shield brothers and warriors, not the wiles of women.” He feels his face flush as he speaks, an inescapable burn. Knowing the debauchery of the gods is different than detailing his own preferences to a god that barely understands anything about mortals, and he almost permits himself to stop treading water and drown to escape the embarrassment.

 **_...OH_** , Sid says. **_MY APOLOGIES._ ** He sounds equally flustered, and Zhenya curses himself within the privacy of his mind. There is no shame in preferring the affections of shield-brothers, he reminds himself, though in fairness, it is more the realm of the youthful than those his age.

The merman that surfaces saves him from the awkward silence. He is strong of feature, with sharply slanted cheeks and a firm, square chin. A rakish scar twists, emerald-green and knotty, across his cheek as he smiles. The shark’s teeth look less unsettling in his face and are instead something closer to sensual in their aggression, at least to Zhenya’s preferences. Zhenya isn’t sure if he should be pleased or disturbed that Sid so accurately guessed his tastes-- or, perhaps more likely, accidentally stumbled upon something that fit his tastes so well.

“Hello, adventurer,” the merman says, and his voice is high and reedy. “One of my fathers has asked a blessing of me to bestow upon you.”

“It would be my honor to accept,” Zhenya says, and the merman drifts closer effortlessly, eyeing Zhenya appreciatively, which-- he is not _opposed_ to, necessarily. The merman raises his hands slowly, gently turning his palms so Zhenya can see they are bare of weaponry before reaching out and slipping one scaly hand around the back of Zhenya’s neck and resting the other against his cheek. Zhenya draws in a quick breath and then the merman’s lips are touching his. The kiss is soft in motion but rough in texture, a gentle glide of the kiss pressing down contrasting with the thousand tiny sparks of pain from each scale-tip of the merman’s lips brushing in the wrong direction when drawing away. The merman flutters a rainstorm of kisses onto Zhenya, who gives himself over to the merman’s confident handling of him, tilting his head or choosing a new target for the next kiss.

It’s some time of drowning in gentle affection-- the first time he’s felt the kindly touch of another person since his crew drowned, the first affection for many months before then _\--_ before Zhenya feels its effects, rising like bubbles from his toes up through his neck. They burst in a sparkle of sensation under his jaw, and he makes a choked noise of surprise. The merman soothes him, rubbing his thumb across Zhenya’s nape until he relaxes into the strange sensation. Kiss after kiss after kiss, and slowly the air that Zhenya breathes through his nose feels foreign and the smell of the seawater grows sweet.

 **_THAT’S ENOUGH_** , Sid says crossly after an indignant huff, but the merman lingers, pressing a long, firm buss to Zhenya’s lips and ending it with a soft nip. The sharpness of his teeth means he breaks skin, though, and Zhenya whimpers. **_I SAID_ ** **ENOUGH** _,_ Sid repeats, and the merman finally draws away, though he leaves the hand upon Zhenya’s neck in place.

“Thank you for the chance to know a new champion,” the merman says, and Zhenya feels himself flush. “Fair skies and kind seas for the rest of your days.” He gives one final squeeze to the back of Zhenya’s neck, just enough to show his strength without threatening, and slips away. Zhenya stares off blankly at the waves crashing against the beach.

 **_MERFOLK_** , Sid mutters. He sounds disgruntled, but Zhenya can’t bring himself to care enough to discover the cause of his poor mood. Luckily, Sid is irate enough to share without prompting. **_ALWAYS UP TO MORE TROUBLE THAN THEY’RE WORTH. HE COULD HAVE GIVEN THE BLESSING IN A SINGLE KISS, LIKE K’MAL WOULD HAVE DONE. AND YET THIS NONSENSE--_ **

“Must you complain, or will I be permitted to enjoy the first pleasurable task you have given me?” Zhenya says, and Sid cuts himself off so abruptly that Zhenya is very nearly worried.

 **_IT HAS ALREADY OCCURRED, I DO NOT SEE WHY YOUR ENJOYMENT SHOULD CONTINUE_** , Sid finally says, and Zhenya sighs. His manhood is certainly losing all enjoyment, partially due to Sid’s mysterious mood and partly due to the cold water coming in with the tide, so he resigns himself to his duty.

“Where is this shipwreck I must swim to? And what is this light I must fetch?”

 **_GO TO THE POINT OF THE CLIFFS NEAREST YOU, AND YOU SHALL FIND THE WRECKS_** , Sid says. **_I WILL TELL YOU NO MORE OF THE LIGHT; PART OF THE JOURNEY IS IN THE DISCOVERY. BE WARNED, THOUGH, YOUR ABILITY TO BREATH BENEATH THE SEA WILL LAST ONLY TWO HOURS, SO YOU MUST BE QUICK._ **

“Two hours?” Zhenya exclaims, but then a thought strikes. “And should I pass it, will the merman return?” Perhaps it is selfish, but he will take whatever tiny kindnesses the god will give him.

 **NO** , Sid says, and Zhenya sighs. **_THAT IS ALL THE TIME YOU HAVE. MAY I SUGGEST THAT YOU START SWIMMING?_ **

“Suggest all you wish to,” Zhenya mumbles, irritated. Sid’s silence is pointed in a way that shows his deliberate dismissal of Zhenya’s attitude, so Zhenya stretches out and swims toward the evil-looking, jagged tooth of the cliff.

It takes him nearly half of an hour to fight the waves out so far, and he curses to himself. A quarter of his time to breathe underwater is wasted, and he has not yet begun. He braces his back against the cliff as he takes a deep breath to contemplate the next step. Still the air feels strange in his lungs, but he gulps against sudden doubt of attempting the same underwater. “What… what will it feel like? Will I draw in breath like I do now, just of water and not of air?” he asks.

 **_BREATHING IS NOT IMPORTANT TO GODS, SO I DO NOT KNOW THE FEELING_** , Sid says, and Zhenya groans aloud and rolls his eyes. Of course his god will only heighten his anxiety, not lessen it. **_BUT THE MERMAN’S MAGIC IS TRUE, IF INDECENTLY DELIVERED. BREATHE UNDER THE WAVES AS YOU DO NOW, AND YOU WILL BE SAFE. AFTER ALL, THE MERFOLK’S MAGIC IS MY MAGIC, AND I WILL NOT PERMIT YOU TO DIE SO EASILY_**.

Sid’s final words of confidence are soothing, and Zhenya takes a deep breath before sinking under the waves. When he opens his eyes, the water does not burn with salt as it usually does, nor is his body tugged back to the surface from his full lungs. The instinct to hold his breath is too great to overcome, and as Zhenya swims down, he feels panic build and build as his lungs scream for release.

 **_BREATHE; I PROMISE YOU, YOU ARE SAFE. YOU WILL NOT DROWN_**. Zhenya shakes his head, words fighting for space but losing against the dance of dark and light in his vision. He will pass out soon, and in desperation he turns and swims towards the watery green surface. He cannot-- he cannot do this. The god has asked too much, this time.

Zhenya miscalculates when he will reach the air and gasps in a breath too soon, eyes blurred by the black of airlessness. He braces to cough and choke, but the water slides smoothly down his throat, his vision clearing immediately. **_YOU ARE SAFE, YOU ARE NOT DROWNING_** , Sid soothes again, and Zhenya takes another breath, and another, and another. He tries to speak, to reply to Sid, but his words garble into the water, tangled in meaningless bubbles. **_HURRY; YOU HAVE BUT AN HOUR LEFT_** , Sid says, somehow guessing Zhenya’s question.

Zhenya turns and dives deeper, some strange sense orienting him to the sky and the sea floor, the cliff and the deeper, distant reaches of the ocean. Each stroke carries him deeper and deeper, water becoming darker and murkier, and he squints as he searches for some hint of reaching the bottom.

With no warning, from the gloom rises a sharp spike of a broken mast, and Zhenya desperately twists to avoid impaling himself upon it. A helpful current saves him, pushing at his back and moving him out of danger far more effectively than his flailing limbs. Once his heart settles, Zhenya swims cautiously down, following the side of the mast, until the deck wavers into view. “What am I looking for?” he tries to ask, but the water again twists his words into unintelligible mumbles.

 **_WITHIN ONE OF THESE SHIPS IS A LIGHT ETERNAL TO HONOR THE LIVES LOST TO MY FURY_** , Sid reminds him. **_YOU WILL KNOW YOU HAVE FOUND THE TOKEN WITHOUT A DOUBT_**.

Zhenya bares his teeth to himself in frustration-- what could be a ‘light eternal?’ A candle, never lit but always waiting? Perhaps a sculpture or mosaic of a fire? Surely not a painting-- he cannot see how it would survive being submerged. He swims along the surface of this ship, questing fingers finding just nets and fractures of oars. The hatch to the oar bays is rusted closed, resistant to Zhenya’s efforts to open it even when he sets his feet against the deck to tug at it, so it leaves it be and strikes out for another ship.

What he finds next is not one ship but three, and a fine assortment at that: a four-banked oared warship, a twelve-oared galley, and a humble four-oared fishing boat. He starts with the quadrireme, almost gleeful at the sight of such a great ship. Her prow and battering ram stand firm, though her eyes have been nearly entirely eaten by the sea, only rough sketches of color left to show their shape and size. He slides between the open decks easily and finds the strata of lives lost, from bones to corroded coins to what must be jewelry, but none of it calls to him as representing a light eternal.

 **_HALF AN HOUR REMAINS_** , Sid warns him. Zhenya groans in frustration, abandoning the quadrireme and moving onto the galley. The sharply curved bow reminds Zhenya of his ship, beached and sun-bleached six weeks’ journey away, and he shudders against a wave of sorrow. There is no deck here, so it is quick work to search the entire length, but again he finds nothing remarkable. He has already turned back to attempt to rip the hatch open on the first ship when he remembers the humble fishing boat. He can feel the blessing lifting with each breath-- the briny taste of seawater creeps back onto his tongue, and each breath in is unnatural and heart-pounding. He curses Sid, and mermen, and every damned foolish decision that led him to this day and swims for the boat. There are but two items resting inside, a surprisingly well-preserved net and a small, raggedy wooden box. He nearly turns and swims away yet again, but some instinct stops him, and he reaches out and brushes his fingers against the box, which disintigrates under his lightest touch.

Zhenya recoils and covers his eyes, shouting soundlessly, as he is blinded by the contents of the box. He warily splits his fingers and cracks open an eye to look, and the light still shines, though less shocking this time. He hiccups, a queasy sensation that leaves his lungs bubbling uncomfortably, and he doesn’t need to hear Sid’s urgent **_ZHENYA!_ ** to know that his time is up. He snatches up the light, sitting firm in his hand, and turns to desperately strike upwards. It feels as if the ocean itself assists him, currents driving him ever up, and his hiccups again and again, each more painful and unreal than the last. The sensation of water in his lungs goes from soothing to irritating to panic-inducing, and Zhenya can see the watery sunlight through the waves above but he’s far, so far, and his chest burns, and he takes in a breath that doesn’t slip smoothly down his throat but rebels against lungs begging for air and not liquid--

Zhenya’s face breaks the surface just as his vision greys out completely. He tries to gasp for air, but his lungs are full, and he coughs and retches, occasionally dipping below the waves as he flounders. The air is just there, but the water is winning, and he can feel his legs falter and slow as he slips back down into the deep.

Strong arms catch him about the waist just before he loses consciousness and raise him high enough to empty his lungs of water and take in the air that he needs. “Breathe well, mortal,” a voice says in his ear. “Your god will not permit you to die so easily.” Zhenya realizes, once his vision begins to clear, that his savior is the merman.

“A pity,” Zhenya grinds out through a throat shredded and bleeding from the force of his struggles and stinging from the saltwater. “Often I think death would be kinder than his intentions for me.”

 **_EXCUSE ME_** , Sid says, sharp with indignance, and the great gust of wind that accompanies it sends a chill through Zhenya.

“The gods do us great challenges according to their own needs, but that does not mean they are entirely without mercy for us,” the merman says. He releases Zhenya, who treads water and turns to face him as he drags a webbed hand down the vicious scar splitting his face in twain. “His intentions are not kind, mayhaps, but he is not without kindness in his heart, and he will pay what he owes you. This god-- how do you know him by?” The merman looks at Zhenya expectantly, but the odd turn of phrase takes a moment to parse.

“I call him Sid,” Zhenya says uncertainty.

The merman nods. “Sid-- well, Sid is known amongst the gods for his devotion to justice, despite not ruling over it, as well as his devotion to honor and upholding his word. Sid will tend to you the best that he can even as he does not pull the blows of his trials.”

“And yet in return he provides me gifts such as yourself,” Zhenya says, and the merman laughs, a hoarse barking cough.

 **_THAT I DO NOT_** , Sid says icily. _**T**_ ** _CHAI, ENOUGH. BEGONE_**.

“You would deny your champion perhaps his last opportunity for the comforts I can provide?” Tchai says, angling a leer at Zhenya. “Perhaps he is correct that you offer him no kindnesses--”

 **ENOUGH!** Sid shouts, and Tchai disappears with a laugh and a slap of his tail upon the waves that drenches Zheya anew.

“At least you could have let him drag my carcass to shore and given me a few more moments of the pleasure of company other than yours,” Zhenya says, and a tiny cloud forms above his head and rains down upon him in answer. It stops as he begins to swim in earnest, thankfully, or else he really might abandon Sid before. He swims slowly, lungs and limbs aching and left hand rendered nearly useless for clutching so tightly around what feels to be a stone, rays of light tinted red by his skin and blood slipping between even tightly-closed fingers.

When Zhenya reaches the shallows, he drops to his knees, sloshing through the water until he can lower himself again to all fours and crawl. As soon as his hands sink into the dry sand, grains instantly sticking to his wet hands, he collapses face-first, panting, into the ground. It is, he decides after a few minutes of exhausted contemplation, the _best_ feeling he has ever felt. Never before has the water scared him so deeply, to the point that now instead of dreading yet another over-land journey, he looks forward to the security of the earth beneath his feet and the air in his lungs.

 **_ARE YOU WELL?_ ** Sid asks tentatively, after Zhenya’s eyes have drifted closed and he sinks close to sleep.

It is such a strange question to come from a god to a mortal, and Zhenya abruptly remembers lying sprawled out in a similar way on the deck of his ship, equally as close to death, but the god caring not a whit for his well-being aside from ensuring that he does not die of his thirst. Now, the question sounds very nearly genuine, and laughter bubbles up from Zhenya’s chest, spilling forth uncontrollably in defiance of the aches of his body. It morphs into something-- strange, not a laugh nor a sob but something in between, and he bites down on his fist hard enough to bleed to stop it.

“I am alive; given the events of today, I believe that is as well as is possible,” Zhenya says.

Sid huffs. **_THAT IS NOT AN ACCEPTABLE ANSWER_**.

“It is the truth. I have nothing else to offer,” Zhenya says, and then coughs, speech tickling his abused throat. He shifts to curl on his side, shards of pain continuing the coughing and building into an unbearable crest. Finally, he shakes to a stop, panting hoarsely through his mouth as he clutches his knees to his chest.

He falls asleep there, naked as a babe and positioned just as one, hand relaxing open to let the light of the rock dance across his face.

\------

The next morning is, unsurprisingly, full of regret. Zhenya’s mouth and eyes are as dry and gritty as the sand he sleeps on, in some small part due to the sand lurking in every vulnerable part of Zhenya’s body but mostly due to a bone-deep dryness from too little water. Every inch of his body screams for relief, and he unwinds himself from his tucked-up position with a groan and still-closed eyes. His movement sparks a strange shift atop him, and he opens his eyes to see his kelp tunic sliding from where it had lain over him to keep the warmth in during the night. He spares half a thought of the merman and if he had performed such a task for Sid before the calling of a gull reminds him of the more probable suspect, given Sid’s previous uses for birds and disdain for the merman’s intentions towards Zhenya.

Slowly, so slowly, Zhenya shakes off the stiffness of the night and tests his aches and pains. All sharpen with movement, but not so much that he worries for deep injuries. Sid is quiet as Zhenya pulls on his tunic and sandals and then paces up and down the beach, swinging his arms and pausing to rotate his legs until he can at least move somewhat normally. On one pass, he spots his loincloth, and with a heavy sigh he bends down to take it, hitches his tunic up about his waist, and ties it on. Properly clothed, as physically comfortable as he can be-- the next step is to slake his thirst and hunger.

“O god,” Zhenya invokes, voice still rasping and throat throbbing from yesterday’s beating. “I find myself with a legendary emptiness in my stomach.”

 **_ONE HUNDRED THOUSAND FISH HUNGER, OR FOUR FISH HUNGER?_ ** Sid asks with a surprising good humor.

“Merely four; I do not find myself as greedy as the gods, despite my equally as fearsome needs,” Zhenya sallies back.

 **_FINE. BUT AS YOU MUST TRAVEL INLAND REGARDLESS-- I KNOW YOUR WATER SKIN IS NEAR-EMPTY-- I WILL ROUSE YOU FISH FROM THE RIVER RATHER THAN THE OCEAN. IT IS ABOUT A HALF-HOUR’S WALK FROM HERE_**.

“I must walk half an hour to break my fast?” Zheny asks, dismayed. “I ate but one meal yesterday _and_ tested my mettle against the ocean, and you make me walk to my reward?”

 **_THE FRESH AIR WILL DO YOU GOOD_** , Sid says.

Zhenya groans. “Have you been speaking with my mother?” he asks suspiciously. “I do not appreciate being mothered through a god, though I am not surprised at her tenacity at ensuring that I hear her words of wisdom even while great distances away.”

**_I HAVE NOT BEEN SPEAKING WITH YOUR MOTHER. NOW WALK._ **

The river is exactly as far as promised, and four fish wait on the bank for him. First, he plunges his face into the river, sucking down the chill, fresh water greedily. Only once his throat is numbed  by the cold and his stomach bloats with water does he fill his waterskin and sit back on his heels to examine the fish. They are glassy-eyed but still wet and cold, not gone long from the river, so Zhenya starts a fire and cleans the fish while he waits. Eating takes half the time as cooking does, and Zhenya burps contentedly when he finishes, stretching out on the soft moss beneath him as he lets his stomach settle.

“I suppose I am to ask where to next, but I first have another curiosity that I must demand my satisfaction on,” Zhenya says. He waits for Sid’s wordless hum of interest before continuing. “What is the trinket that I stole from the sea yesterday? I have paid so dearly for it that it must be quite unique.”

 **_HAVE YOU HEARD OF SUNSTONES?_ ** Sid asks.

Zhenya forms a moue as he thinks. “I… the word does not seem unfamiliar, for some reason, but I cannot say I have any deeper understanding,” he admits.

**_WELL. IN A LAND, FAR TO THE NORTH OF EVEN THE LANDS OF YOUR CLAN, A SPECIAL ROCK GROWS BENEATH THE GROUND AND IS BROUGHT TO THE SURFACE WITH THE MOVEMENT OF THE EARTH. THIS ROCK, WHEN HELD TO THE SKY, WILL SHOW YOU WHICH DIRECTION THE SUN IS IN WHEN YOU CANNOT SEE IT, EVEN ON THE STORMIEST OF DAYS. IT IS PRIZED BY SAILORS THERE AS THE MOST RELIABLE NAVIGATOR WHEN DIRECTION IS A MYSTERY._ **

Zhenya digs in his belt pouch to remove the stone. Its glow is not so blinding in the light of day, and he can see and feel the shape of the stone now, a clean rectangle with sharp angles. “It seems this one has confused finding the sun with being the sun,” Zhenya says.

**_THE SUNSTONE IS ONE OF MY MOST BLESSED OBJECTS. MY DEVOTEES WOULD TRAVEL FAR TO THE NORTH TO FIND THE LAND WHERE THEY CAN BE FOUND TO BRING THEM BACK BY THE BOATFUL. A SUNSTONE CAN COME TO ITS OWN LIGHT IN THREE WAYS. ONE USED BY MY FAVORED MORTALS WILL SHINE WITH THEIR GREATNESS AFTER THEIR DEATH, ONE BLESSED BY MY PRIESTS WILL SHINE WITH THEIR DEVOTION, AND ONE NEARBY TO ANY GREAT MIRACLE OF MINE WILL SHINE WITH THAT MOMENT’S HOLINESS._ **

“Of which type is this, then?” Zhenya asks, though he suspects the answer.

 **_THE MEN WHO SAILED THE BOAT YOU TOOK THAT FROM LOOKED FOR GLORY IN MY NAME_** , Sid says. He sounds-- wistful, or saddened, something tinged with pain. **_THEY CALLED TO ME AND BEGGED FOR MERCY AS THE STORM DASHED THEM UPON THE ROCKS, NO GLORY FOUND. ALL THAT I COULD GIVE THEM WAS REMEMBERANCE_**.

Zhenya bows his head over the rock. His fate was so close to theirs as he searched for this rock, and he wonders-- if Sid was a little more attentive, if he knew of mortals then like he did now, would it have been different? How many lives would have been richer and longer? There is no use in wondering over the mysteries of the gods, he chides himself, and tucks the stone away. “I am sated, as you promised, and so now I must continue to fulfill my promises to you. Where must I go next?”

**_THE SUNSTONE IS NOT AN IDLE GIFT. IT IS NOW YOUR STONE, SHINING WITH THE BLESSING OF YOUR DEVOTIONS TO ME. IT MUST BE WORN PROUDLY, TO SHOW ALL YOUR STRENGTH IN ME AND TO KEEP MY LIGHT WITH YOU AT ALL TIMES. THERE IS A VILLAGE, TWO DAYS’ WALK NORTH AND THREE MORE INLAND, WITH THE MATERIAL YOU NEED TO FASHION THIS STONE INTO A BRACELET._ **

Sid’s continued interest in dressing Zhenya as the gaudiest of champions is-- distressing, to say the least. Yet a rock seems to be a strange hill to die on, given that he is already dressed in kelp, so he stands with a groan and snaps, “Fine. I will start my journey, then.”

Zhenya backtracks to the beach, hobbling with new stiffness from sitting, and begins his journey north. Over the course of the day, physical misery slides into sickness with a watery nose and an aching head, but Zhenya raises his chin and soldiers forward. No doubt the god would be horrified by illness, so Zhenya endeavors to hide it.

Unfortunately, either he does a very poor job of hiding it, or the god has grown more perceptive, or perhaps some hellish combination of both. Zhenya awakes on the next morning with a groan to the sounds of a shouted **_CHAMPION!_** **ZHENYA!** in his head, muffled under the drumming of pain and the gentle shush of the ocean he lies beside.

“Hush,” Zhenya moans. “Why do you yell so?”

 **_WHAT IS WRONG?!_ ** Sid asks, and it’s hurried, desperate, worried. **_NORMALLY YOU HAVE ARISEN BY NOW, AND YET YOU SLEEP AND SWEAT AND COUGH AND GROAN._ **

“Just let me rest, and this illness will pass,” Zhenya says, and the air swirls worriedly about him as he falls asleep again.

He awakes, drenched in sweat yet freezing cold, well after noon. **_HOW ARE YOU?_ ** Sid asks the moment his eyes open, and he groans as best he can with his nose rendered useless.

“Miserable,” Zhenya mutters before coughing. “But I will heal.”

 **_HOW?_ ** Sid frets. **_YOU HAVE NOT EATEN, YOU HAVE NOT DRUNK, YOU LOOK AS TO BE A CORPSE._ **

“This is illness,” Zhenya says. “Be grateful that you do not have to suffer so.”

He drifts, caught in the place between exhaustion and consciousness, for a long time before Sid says hesitantly, **_MAY I… MAY I ATTEMPT TO GIVE YOU AID?_ **

“What aid can you give me?” Zhenya snaps and then falls into a coughing fit. When he can breathe again, he says weakly, “Yes, I will accept your help.”

 **_CAN YOU GO TO THE SEA?_ ** Sid asks, and Zhenya wants to say that he cannot, but-- truly what he cannot do is deny Sid. He struggles to his hands and knees; the sea is maybe twenty paces from where he made camp last night, and it seems an impossible distance. As he lifts each leaden limb and lets it sink into the sand in a new place, he thinks of the last time he crawled this far across a beach. Sid, an unknown, angry god hovering over him, the loss of his crew and friends a fresh wound, with a heart full of bleak despair.

Zhenya is jarred from his thoughts as his hand splashes into a tidepool. **_THIS IS FAR ENOUGH_** , Sid whispers, and Zhenya collapses onto his side with a grateful whimper. **_ALLOW ME A MOMENT_**.

A mighty rumble of thunder sounds, and Zhenya opens his eyes to a crystal-clear sky. The tide pool beside him roils with lightning, beaten into a furious froth by the storm within, and he watches through slitted eyes as it settles and takes on the godly violet fire of Sid’s blessing.

 **_DRINK_** , Sid urges.

Zhenya gives a tiny shake of his head. “Seawater will make me more ill,” he croaks.

**_IT IS NO LONGER SEAWATER. PLEASE, I PROMISE, TRY._ **

Zhenya cannot deny him.

Zhenya rolls to prop himself up on an elbow, cupping the other hand and lifting a dripping sip of water to his mouth. He braces for the acrid sourness of the sea, but instead the water tastes clean and pure, slipping easily down his throat. Instantly, a memory strikes him, so strong that it sits in his touch and smell and sight: sitting around the fire, listening to his father tell the tales of the great heroes. The tickle in his throat eases, the ever present desire to cough abating, and he stares dumbly at the glowing pool before dropping face-first into it and gulping greedily. He feels the arm of his mother about his shoulders, hears the laughter of his long-lost crew, sees the joyous nights spent together in friendship during their journey.

When Zhenya finally leans back, pool drained, he realizes that not all wetness on his face was from drinking. He wipes away the tears that streak down his cheeks as he breathes freely, limbs filled with vigor and all signs of illness gone. “Thank you,” he says, voice rusty with the memories of home and family and kindness, moments that were so far gone under the strain of service to a god and now sit whole and close in his heart.

 **_YOU ARE WELCOME_** , Sid says, shy and prideful, and the sensation of his mother’s arm is replaced by something else, a rippling warmth that slides gently across his arms and settles on his back. **_THOUGH I AM SORRY TO HAVE MADE YOU WEEP_**.

“My father once told me-- the average man may not shed tears for fear of how he is perceived, but the greatest of heroes take strength in honest expression,” Zhenya says, and the warmth wraps all about him, as if it is an embrace, and-- he wonders. “I thank you for your gift of healing, both in body and soul.”

 **_I TOLD YOU LONG AGO, TO LIVE IN SERVICE OF A GOD IS TO BE TREATED AS MINE. THIS IS THE SMALLEST OF GIFTS THAT I CAN GIVE YOU, AND I AM PLEASED THAT YOU FIND COMFORT AND JOY IN IT_** , Sid says, and his voice flowers with pleasure.

For the first time, this promise feels like a blessing and not a curse, and Zhenya rests a little longer, wrapped in the fizzing touch of his god.

\------

Zhenya reaches the town in four days and not five, bolstered by the new strength brought to him by Sid’s brew. He feels alive like he hasn’t for weeks, soaking in the caress of the breeze, the soft spring or hard pinch of the earth below his feet, the green and blue and brown smells of the world around him. A veil is gone from his eyes, and now, he goes to his duty-- and his death-- gladly, with the comfort of knowing he led a life well-lived. Short, perhaps, but to know the time of his death and not wait in fear opens the door to boundless joy.

The lightness of his step does not falter when he enters the town, even in the face of the miseries of humans living so close together and the suspicious stares and hisses he garners, clothed in green and wild of hair and expression as he must be.

Zhenya’s head swivels on his neck as he surveys each building, looking for a jeweler or metalworker. On one of his passes, he spots a gaping-mouthed child, of perhaps eight years, and when he meets eyes with her, she gasps, “Are you a satyr? Or another spirit of the forest?”

Zhenya laughs and crouches down to bring his eyes to her level. “I am a spirit of the sea,” he confides, and her hands fly to cover her mouth, eyes rimmed with white in surprise. It was meant to be teasing, but he realizes in her reaction it is more true than he anticipated-- he walks among this village as if he is no longer a mortal like them, but some fey being trapped between this life and godhood, in service of and dependent on both, yet still wholly different. “I am on a quest for my god, and so I have come here in search of a metalworker or jeweler. Do you know of one?”

“I’ll show you!” she chirps instantly, eyes shining with the possibility of helping a great hero. “Come with me!” She snatches Zhenya’s hand without asking, pulling at it so strongly that he nearly falls upon his face before he can stand and hurry after her. She takes him to the center of the town where there is a fine courtyard and a small fountain and even more people that sneer or stare at Zhenya. A shop filled with glittering chains and fine rings sits on the square, echos of the ringing of hammers on metal bouncing off of the fountain water and around the space.

“Uncle, uncle, I found a nymph and he wants your rings!” the girl squeals, and Zhenya tries not to groan at Sid’s hysterical laughter in his ear interspersed with a gasping, **_NYMPH!?_ ** The girl’s uncle apparently agrees, though is far more polite in turning his initial bark of laughter into a cough.

“Thank you, niece, now run along,” he shoos, but the girl retreats only as far as the corner of the shop, watching Zhenya closely, as if he is soon to disappear and she wishes to see the magic of it.

The jeweler stares at Zhenya evenly, without the judgement of the other townspeople but with a disquieting flatness. Zhenya, desperate to fill the silence, says, “I am not a nymph, but I do come here in the service of a god. I need material to make a bracelet of this stone.” He tugs his belt pouch open, rays of light sprinting forth before he reaches in and removes the sunstone to show the jeweler.

“Many claim to be in the service of the gods and yet serve only their inner creatures,” the jeweler says. Zhenya’s heart sinks; the man thinks him crazed with delusion, and he has no way to prove--

A crack of thunder sounds behind Zheya, loud enough to leave his ears ringing, and even with his back turned to the plaza he sees the echos of light from the lightning bolt. **_HE CLAIMS TO BE IN THE SERVICE OF THE GODS BECAUSE HE IS_** , Sid booms, and the jeweler cries out, covering his ears and collapsing to the ground in supplication.

“Forgive me, forgive me, I only ask to protect my family--” the jeweler begs, but he is cut off by Sid.

 **_PROTECT YOUR FAMILY? FROM THE CHAMPION OF A GOD? THE ONLY THING YOU PROTECT YOURSELF FROM NOW IS GOOD FORTUNE AND HOLY FAVORS_**.

“No, please, I will do anything, I will give your champion anything, please, just do not curse my family,” the jeweler babbles. Sid does not answer immediately, and Zhenya turns his face up to scowl at the sky. He has no desire for this man and his family-- he looks to see the niece is still in the corner, looking awed by the farcical play being acted out before her, undeserving of any punishment-- to suffer for his understandable caution.

Just as Zhenya is about to speak to scold Sid, consequences be damned, Sid says magnanimously, **_YOU WILL BE FORGIVEN SHOULD YOU PROVIDE MY CHAMPION WHAT HE REQUIRES TO FASHION A FINE BRACELET OF HIS SUNSTONE._ **

“Of course, as you desire, o holy one,” the jeweler says, tears shining in his eyes, and he removes his hands from his ears to bend forward and begin digging through storage bins below and stacking material on the counter. “Here, finest gold, silver, and copper wire, or bars of silver. I have no gold bars, but you are welcome to my furnace to cast whatever you desire. Does this please, o champion? I can bring my most skilled craftsman to assist, should you need it--”

“This will do,” Zhenya says. The man’s obeisance and groveling stance towards Zhenya makes him feel ill and reminds him of his earlier revelation. Not mortal, not holy, but trapped between, forever outcast from both. He shakes off the thought and examines the wares, the jeweler picking up each item and turning it so it glitters most favorably under his eye. He has no use for the silver or copper bars; he cannot fashion a cast or execute it well, nor does he have the patience to wait on a craftsman to do the work, so the wire it must be. He dithers-- gold to honor Sid greatly, silver to represent the grey of a stormy sea or the foaming wave-caps, copper to show the blood he has shed on Sid’s behalf-- before making his selection.

“That is finest silver, o champion, and I promise you will be most pleased with its durability and shine,” the jeweler says. Zhenya watches dispassionately as a drop of sweat slides down the jeweler’s forehead and drops onto the table.

“It will suffice,” Zhenya says.

The jeweler bows deep with an explosive sigh.  “Is there any other way that I can assist you?” he asks, and though he clearly desires _no_ as the answer, Zhenya’s stomach rumbles.

“I require a food stall or a tavern, for the work of the gods is hungry work,” Zhenya says.

“My brother owns a tavern-- I will take you to him, and ensure he gives you a feast worthy of those chosen by the gods,” the jeweler says.

Truthfully, Zhenya wishes for nothing more than food that hasn’t come from the sea accompanied by a serviceable mug of wine, but the jeweler is distressed enough without having Zhenya attempt to dissuade him from the traditional gifts for a god’s representative. The tavern is just across the square, and the jeweler makes introductions, thankfully preventing Sid from once again creating a spectacle. The girl is apparently the daughter of the innkeeper, having followed them there and hugged the astonished innkeeper about the waist, and she eagerly brings him his eggs, the first course of a proper meal.

“Thank you,” he says solemnly, and she dips into a curtsey in return. “I have not eaten eggs for many moons, now, and this is a great gift.”

“Really?” she gasps, once again full of youthful astonishment. “Your god doesn’t permit you eggs?”

“He keeps me quite busy,” Zhenya whispers, looking up and around until she giggles. “I will tell you all, if you wish you keep me company through my meal.”

“Yes!” she enthuses, sliding onto the bench next to Zhenya without a second thought. She gasps and claps and cheers through the tales Zhenya recites for the first time, and her enthusiasm soothes an ache on Zhenya’s soul that he had not even been aware of until that moment. When he is midway through telling the story of creating his kelp tunic, he sees from the corner of his eye a woman that steps through the door from the kitchen with a thunderous expression. She storms over to the girl once sighted, mouth open in preparation for what is presumably a scolding at shirking her duties, but stops as she sees Zhenya dramatically re-enacting the kelp netting turning into the fine fabric that it is today. He pauses to give her a curious look, and she hastily bows and leaves, and Zhenya resumes his stories.

Zhenya finishes telling the girl of almost drowning after fetching the sunstone as the last course arrives, a tiny early apple accompanied by grapes. He gestures her towards the grapes as he bites the apple, and she blushes, shaking her head no. “I cannot take food from the gods,” she says, precise and careful as if it is a phrase she has heard many times and been asked to repeat.

“This is not an altar,” Zhenya says. “But, if you insist-- close your eyes and hold out your hand.” She looks at him dubiously, but he nods encouragingly, and finally she obeys. He plucks a handful of grapes from their stem and drops them into her hand, saying, “Open your eyes.” She frowns as she looks down at the grapes, so he adds, “You have not taken food from the gods, but they have gifted food to you. It would be a great offense should you reject it.”

“As the gods command,” she says and cheerfully pops one of the grapes in her mouth. Zhenya cannot help but smile, charmed by her honest and innocent demeanor.

That is when the innkeeper returns, bowing and scraping. “O chosen champion of the gods, did you find your meal pleasing?” he asks, and Zhenya is shaken from his moment of peace in sharing with the girl.

“Yes, it was excellent, thank you,” Zhenya says. The innkeeper hovers, still, and-- he is not welcome here, he is not a mortal. He must leave. So he stands and nods at the innkeeper, saying, “Thank you for your hospitality.” He turns to the girl and smiles at her. “Thank you for your company during my meal.” She blushes again, ducking her head and hiding behind her father. “I must continue on my journey for my god.”

The innkeeper breaks out into a relieved grin, and Zhenya turns tail and _runs_. Not literally, at least not until he leaves the town far behind, at which point his carefully restrained walk turns into a desperate sprint back towards the sea, until he must collapse, winded, and pant until the burning in his lungs and limbs stop. The burning in his heart remains, though, and he lies motionless upon the ground until Sid asks, **_ARE-- ARE YOU WELL?_ **

“There is nothing on this earth that I desired more than to grow my clan and add my own children to its ranks,” Zhenya says, and Sid makes an odd, cut-off noise. “That girl reminded me of-- of hope, and dreams, and all that is now beyond my grasp.”

 **_I AM SORRY--_ ** Sid attempts, but Zhenya cuts him off.

“It is strange to look at myself as I once was and how I am now,” Zhenya says musingly. “Then, I was a simple mortal, looking to prove my bravery and honor and return to my clan to grow it. Now, I walk between mortals and gods, belonging to neither, and yet I have all the satisfaction I expected. Though I may curse your name for how you drove my life from the path I expected, I cannot say that I have cursed the results. I am-- wistful, yes, but still joyful.”

 **_I DON’T UNDERSTAND_** , Sid says after a long pause.

Zhenya frowns. How to explain to a god the tiny directions of mortals, like ants following their path? “Mortals come into this world tiny and powerless, and many work to become more than merely an ant dutifully following those before it. We strive for greatness, but not just any greatness. It must be one that is meaningful and lovely to us, and anything else is a disappointment. Yet sometimes there are moments when you can glimpse through the woods and see the path you did not choose-- you may wish for it, but not enough to veer and try to cut through the undergrowth to make it there. You merely allow your heart to ache, and the questions to rise, while remaining devoted to the greatness before you.”

 **_OH,_ ** Sid says softly, as if Zhenya’s words are great truths instead of the ramblings of a man so far removed from civilization that an afternoon meal at an inn brings him to an existential crisis. **_I… THANK YOU FOR WALKING THE PATH I GAVE YOU._ **

“You’re welcome,” Zhenya says, the words surprised out of him. _It was hardly a choice_ , he wants to say. _You are a god, and I am a mortal. Where you command, I go_. But-- perhaps there was a choice there. He could have sat upon his beached ship until Sid struck him with a lightning bolt or he died of thirst. He could have travelled in the opposite direction of Sid’s urgings, or refused to weave the kelp or kiss the merman. And yet-- he did, first through duty, but now through devotion. And now, he walks gladly to his death, unprepared, unarmed, but willing. For Sid. Zhenya thinks, with a pang-- what a life that could have been, if Sid was a mortal. What a shield-mate he would be, a warrior that Zhenya would be proud to live and die beside. Perhaps being Sid’s champion is a farce of that path, a mockery of what-could-be, but Zhenya will take what paltry gifts he is given. To have known Sid, to die in his honor, is the best death Zhenya can know.

Sid hesitantly interrupts Zhenya’s thoughts-- and sudden epiphany-- with a tentative, **_ZHENYA?_ **

“Yes?” he replies absently, staring as his hand as he turns it over and flexes it. To lie his hand upon Sid’s being, as marble-skinned as the finest statue and carved just in the same manner….

 **_YOU MUST FINISH THE SUNSTONE BRACELET BEFORE I CAN SEND YOU ON YOUR FINAL TASK_**.

Zhenya sits up straight. “Final task?” he asks, heart thrumming in his chest. As kindly as he thought of his death a moment ago, it seems too sudden now, with Sid’s strange tasks running dry. He folds his arms, attempting for a casual air, and says, “I find myself disappointed in your efforts. No task has been monumentally difficult; dare I say they were simple, compared to the heroic deeds sung of in the great epics.”

 **_I ASSURE YOU, I HAVE SAVED THE MOST MAGNIFICENT FOR LAST_** , Sid says, amused. **_SUCH A FOOLISH CHALLENGE TO ISSUE TO A GOD, AND YET YOU DO NOT STOP YOURSELF AFTER MANY MONTHS OF KNOWING ME_**.

“What can I say? I desire challenge, which is why I have not strayed from your path, even though you have not delivered,” Zhenya says. He feels Sid’s laugh ripple across his skin, strong enough to send a chill through him after. It’s stronger than before, he realizes. Sid is stronger now than when he was first chosen. Is his strength from Zhenya? Or from some other, unknown elixir?

 **_AND I SUPPOSE THIS IS HOW YOU FELT FOUR DAYS AGO, WHEN YOU NEARLY DROWNED FROM YOUR FOOLISHNESS AND INABILITY TO DIVINE THE MEANING OF THE TASK_** , Sid says drily.

“Absolutely,” Zhenya says breezily. He feels his eyes sparkle and lips curve in helpless joy at the ripostes between them. “And your accusations of failing to ‘divine the meaning of the task’”-- he takes on a pompous manner as he quotes Sid-- “Are absolutely unfounded.”

 **_I THINK NOT_** , Sid says, truly laughing now. **_YOU FOUND THREE SHIPS AND YOU SEARCHED FROM LARGEST TO SMALLEST AFTER I SO CLEARLY TOLD YOU OF THE PRECIOUSNESS OF FISHERMEN TO ME._ **

“Perhaps I was looking for other treasure in the other ships, having comfortably come to understand the situation.” Sid’s snort shows his disbelief in the blatant lie, but Zhenya ignores him. “I tire of your pitiful banter,” he declares haughtily. “I will fashion the bracelet, as you demand, and then you will reveal to me if you have any creativity in your soul for challenging your champion.”

 **_OF COURSE_** , Sid says. **_I LOOK FORWARD TO WITNESSING YOUR SKILLFUL JEWELRY-MAKING._ **

Zhenya harrumphs but does not respond, examining the coil of silver wire and the sunstone. They shimmer beautifully together, the bright, warm light of the stone bringing a depth and glitter to the silver. Yet staring at the supplies gives him no inspiration for how to fashion them together in a way that he can wear. He thinks desperately of the jewelry that he has seen elsewhere, but his mind is blank and unhelpful. _Start where you know,_  his father always told him, and though it was intended to be a lesson in navigating, it seems appropriate here. Zhenya knows fishing nets, and perhaps he can create one of the wire and wrap it about the sunstone to secure it.

The silver is more difficult to work with than he envisioned, and he momentarily regrets not taking the gold after he stabs himself in the thumb with the raw end for the fourth time as he struggles to form knots. Soon he learns the trick of it, though, anticipating the bend for the knot while working the raw end through carefully to not add more bends than he needs that will catch on the knots. Soon, though his shoulders are sore from hunching over his work, he has a hand-sized piece of silver netting. It wraps about the sunstone easily, and Zhenya secures the netting with a knotted piece of wire and a triumphant, “Hah!” As he looks at the stone trapped in its glittering net, it becomes obvious how to create the band to go about his wrist, and he cuts the remaining wire into many even lengths and creates an intricate braid, twisting the ends down and wrapping them around the net knots securely.

Zhenya realizes too late that it’s too small to slip over the width of his knuckles, and he ignores Sid’s snickering as he unwinds one end of the band and open it enough to slip on his wrist, clumsily twisting it shut with one hand, bracing his left arm and the bracelet against his chest. “There,” he declares, satisfied, holding his wrist up to the sky for Sid to examine. “Just as you commanded, o holy one. Now please, end the suspense; what is my next task?”

 **_PERHAPS I WILL ONLY TELL YOU WHERE YOU MUST GO AND NOT WHAT THE TASK IS OF_** , Sid teases, but there is an underscore of seriousness that worries Zheya. Before he can intercede, Sid finishes, **_NO, I CANNOT. THIS TASK COMES IN TWO STEPS, BUT I SHALL TELL YOU AT LEAST OF THE FIRST. YOU MUST FIND A SHIP THAT HAS SAILED FOR AT LEAST TEN YEARS, SO IT IS WELL-BAPTIZED BY MY OCEAN, AND REMOVE ITS KEEL._ **

“ _What?_ ” Zhenya asks, incredulous. “Where am I to find a ship that has sailed ten years and yet its owners will not mind its loss? How am I to remove a keel from such a ship? Is the important aspect destroying the keel and preserving the body of the ship, or must I keep the keel in a single piece?”

**_THE KEEL MUST REMAIN IN A SINGLE PIECE, AS THE SECOND STEP OF THE TASK REQUIRES IT. AS FOR A SHIP THAT HAS SAILED TEN YEARS… I BELIEVE YOU SHALL KNOW IT WHEN YOU SEE IT. I WOULD SUGGEST TRAVELLING NORTH, TWENTY-SIX OR TWENTY-SEVEN DAYS, AND I SUSPECT THAT AS SOON AS YOU SEE THE ANSWER, YOU WILL KNOW IT._ **

Zhenya groans and begins his wheedling and begging for more information as he stands and turns north, but Sid remains firm on that day and for twenty-five days after. Sid is silent for long periods of time, especially when Zhenya is relentless about finding a ship, but still rejoins to trade stories with Zhenya, usually around his evening fire. It is just as pleasant as before, but bittersweet, tinged with knowing that the final challenge and greater purpose of Zhenya’s trials draws ever nearer.

\------

On the twenty-sixth day, after nearly a month of long and worrying silences interspersed with comfortable banter and storytelling, Zhenya turns a sharp, inland spike on the beach and gasps. Half-buried by the sand, sun-bleached and wind-stripped, his ship still stands on the shore. He can see, even in broad daylight, the faint glow in the distance of the sea mark he built, and his throat closes over. Sid is quiet as Zhenya sloshes through the last gasps of each breaker as they fizzle out against the sand, passing his ship resolutely to walk down the shoal and towards the mark.

Zhenya falls to his knees before the sea mark, bending forward to press his forehead into the wet sand. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, and the grief rises in his throat again, as vicious and as strong as the first day when he build the sea mark. Every bit of self-doubt and self-loathing and misery comes rushing back, pulling him under the surface and threatening to drown him again. He rocks back and forth as he sobs, clutching his arms around his midsection, and falls into the oblivion of anguish.

He comes to some time later, the light changed as the sun lowered in the sky, the ghosts of violet light dancing around the sea mark growing stronger. He is comforted by his arms wrapped about himself, but also by the soothing sensation of Sid’s godly touch across his back, a warmth stretching from the nape of his neck down the curve of his buttocks. It is so much stronger than before, feeling now like a blanket warmed by the fire, but one constantly shifting in a ripple of comfort like a hand stroking down his back. Zhenya takes a few long, deep breaths, unfolding and sitting back on his heels so his chest can expand properly, and the feeling moves with him, wrapping gently about his torso as he sits up. He can sense Sid’s impatience for him to speak, to say something, but no words live in the quiet tides of loss.

Zhenya stands, shaking off the comforting warmth about him, and steps forward to rest his hand against the sea mark. “I will see you soon, my loyal crew, my wayward adventurers made from fishermen,” he vows, letting the ephemeral violet light of Sid’s blessing kiss against his hand and sink into his skin. “I have nearly filled my obligations and will be soon permitted to join you.”

 **_ZHENYA--_ ** Sid says, troubled, but Zhenya ignores him, and he seems not to have more to add. Zhenya turns away from the sea mark, desperate to distance himself from the aching space in his chest, and he sees his ship again. His heart shudders to a stop as he remembers Sid’s words: _find a ship that has sailed for at least ten years, so it is well-baptized by my ocean, and remove its keel._ The _Kallikhthus_ is his clan’s ship, now handed down to him, built twenty-five years ago with tender love and crafty hands. It was made to carry young fishermen as they fulfilled their wanderlust before returning and settling down to a softer relationship with the sea, not-- for _this_.

“There must be another ship,” Zhenya begs, sinking down into a crouch as he is flooded with despair. Its tilting, quiet presence on the beach is the only connection that Zhenya still has to his past, his family, his quiet and fully mortal life before Sid. “There must be a fishing village somewhere close with a ship old enough-- I will walk a month or more, wherever I must go, if only to save my ship.”

 **_CORACLES AND FISHING BOATS ARE NOT AS WELL-LOVED OR CARED FOR LIKE YOUR SHIP_** , Sid says, quiet and regretful. **_YOU WOULD HAVE TO SAIL FORTH TO FIND ANOTHER SHIP, AND THE JOURNEY OF TRANSPORTING THE KEEL TO WHERE IT MUST GO WILL BECOME EVEN MORE LABORIOUS. I FEAR THIS IS YOUR BEST AND ONLY OPTION_**.

Zhenya bows his head, closes his eyes, and lets himself _feel_. His chest aches with this next sacrifice he must make for Sid. Like each task before, this feels like a step too far, a gift he cannot give for the overpowering tides of his own weaknesses. And yet-- each request he has fulfilled, despite his own doubts and resistances, because of Sid’s assistance: Sid holding the albatross still, Sid telling Zhenya stories of his life, Sid bringing him the merman to save him from drowning in exhaustion, Sid appearing to the villagers to prove Zhenya’s claims. Zhenya opens his eyes and the first thing he sees is the soft glow of the sunstone, caught in its silver net, and a moment of breathless epiphany strikes him.

Sid is _his_ sunstone, the light in the face of the relentless darkness of the deep ocean. When Zhenya falters, Sid shows him the way to the sun, the direction towards hope. He shimmers and sparkles, and Zhenya willingly chases after it for the tastes of glory and victory he scatters behind. Zhenya has raged and dreaded and hated over the price he has paid for this, but in the end, Sid has given him what he adventured for and more.

To destroy his clan’s ship-- it is the ultimate act of devotion, whether or not Sid intended it that way. Zhenya can choose to kick and scream and despite every step of defacing his legacy, or he can go willingly, gifting it to the god he follows, he loves. Zhenya thinks of his crew, his shield brothers, his _friends_ , and he knows their fury should he cast aside the chance at glory that they lost their lives to allow. The only part that rages within him is the selfish part, the fearful part, the instinct deep inside that says _don’t trust._  But Sid has earned that trust, his crew had earned that trust. So he will set aside his fear, his rage, his control, and give himself over to Sid entirely.

“I will do this for you,” Zhenya declares, standing and striding towards the ship.

Sid makes a pained, choked off noise before saying, **_I’M SORRY_**. The words sink through Zhenya’s mind, weighty with guilt and shame.

Zhenya laughs, a sound wild and free. “What is there to apologize for? This is a gift I give you willingly, not a moment to be filled with regret or apologies.”

 **_PERHAPS YOU SHOULD RESERVE THAT JUDGEMENT UNTIL THE COMPLETION OF THIS TASK_** , Sid says, words still soaked in shame.

Zhenya’s step hesitates at such uncharacteristic expression. “Is everything well?” he asks, and realizes with a jolt it is the first time he has asked for assurance of Sid’s mood rather than the other way about.

Sid laughs, edged in bitterness, and says, **_EVERYTHING IS AS IT ALWAYS HAS BEEN_**.

Less than helpful, to say the least, and Zhenya sighs but does not press the matter, distracted by how near he is to his ship. He stops to survey it, taking in the new aging and wearing upon its body. It looks seaworthy, but just barely, though the keel isn’t visible at all. He prays it will not be badly cracked or warped; with any luck-- or blessings of sea gods-- the sand will have protected it from harsh weather or drying too quickly and destroying the shape and balance.

Turning the ship will be a full day’s labor on its own, Zhenya evaluates, but with the remainder of today he must clean out anything of use from within the ship, for given that he has no dry-dock, he will not be able to reach into the bowels of the ship within once it is upside-down. He steps closer, almost fearfully, before he forces himself to blow out a long breath and shake out the tension from his limbs. There is nothing to fear here, and he reminds himself of his gratitude and his love.

Reverently, Zhenya walks alongside the ship, letting his hand play over the hull to find the rough spots, the weak spots, the places where barnacles once lived, the new cracks of the wood drying out. He reaches the prow, sunk so low into the sand that he can reach the deck with his feet still firmly upon the ground. He wraps his fingers around the sharp corner of the deck and kicks off the hull to swing himself onto the ship.

The deck has clearly been picked over by seabirds and used as a resting place; gulls scatter at Zhenya’s thumping arrival on the deck, but the white smears of guano remain to signal the ship’s popularity. The top deck remains otherwise as empty as the day Zhenya left it, so he slides down to the lower deck, ducking to save his skull from the wooden cross-beams he so often forgetfully hit it off of. There is some evidence of birds here, though far less than above, and much of the supplies that survived the crash appear untouched. Most important to Zhenya is the small axe lashed against the inner face of the hull, and so he rescues that first, cutting it free with the knife that has been his faithful companion. It is coated with a fine layer of rust, but nothing that Zhenya cannot remove with patience and a whetstone. It will do much better than his knife to remove the keel, though given the size of the axe, it will still be a miserable labor of many days.

Next is a whetstone, and he finds one tumbled below the benches for the oar banks. It is not his own, and his heart pangs as he realizes it once belong to Sasha. “Thank you, brother,” he whispers, and he can very nearly hear Sasha’s carefree laughter and snorted response: _you thank me for what you steal from me? What fine manners you have, brother_. He tucks it into his belt pouch with a bittersweet smile, and goes to investigate the rest of the items littering the lower deck. They are the detritus of their lives of boredom upon a ship that never could find adventure, and Zhenya picks up each piece and lets it sit in his hand. Here is the beginnings of a wooden bear that Seryozha carved for his eldest daughter; there is one of Valera’s many experiments with new shapes of netting, half-complete and more knot than net. Each and every item receives his thanks and his touch before he can permit himself to stand and return to the upper deck. The urge to take each piece as a memory of his men burns in his chest, but he cannot bear to part them from the ship that carried them to the afterlife.

Again, there is a mighty clatter as he reaches the deck from birds taking off. The sun is near to setting, so he sits upon the top deck with his legs crossed and watches it sink below the horizon, wavering and red, and the second it disappears fully from view, a blue-violet ray flickers into existence and then fades.

“Braggart,” Zhenya says, amused, and climbs down the side of his ship amongst Sid’s shrill protests that he is not a _braggart_ and it was a mere _coincidence_ that his blessings showed through the sunset today.

\------

Zhenya wakes early the next morning, stretching out the stiffness of deep sleep amid a shroud of heavy fog. He can hear the sea but not see it, the swish of the tide receding echoing almost directionless around him. He turns to see a broad leaf sitting in a valley of sand next to his hip, piled high with late figs, and a smaller leaf with a piece of honeycomb. “Thank you,” he murmurs, and a soft breeze fingers through his hair in return.

The fog lifts enough for Zhenya to see his ship as he’s chewing the last of the honeycomb. He leans back on one hand as he surveys the port side sitting broadside to him. Without a wind, it should be the work of only an hour or two to clear the sand enough to tip the ship. Any breeze, though, will throw the sand to catch against the port side and grow quickly into a problem he cannot dig himself free of.

With the air still calm from the dense fog, there is no time to waste. Zhenya hurries to the ship, spitting out the last chunk of beeswax to the side as he goes. He has no shovel or tool to help, so he must cup his hands together and throw the sand as far as he can.

The aches start immediately from the unnatural, hunching motion, burning down his side and in his thighs. He switches which side he scoops to several times before the muscles seize fully in his sides, and he stretches upwards with an irritated huff. The fog has cleared, but the wind remains unnaturally absent, and he is loathe to rest too much and squander his chance. Out of nowhere, Zhenya thinks of a dog digging to bury a bone. He shrugs to himself; he has no dignity left regardless, and he bends and throws the sand back between his legs. Sid makes a muffled noise that Zhenya ignores, because ridiculous or not, he suffers much less pain than before.

The port side of the ship is exposed down to the keel just within two hours. Zhenya leaps up and scampers back as the ship begins to tilt alarmingly, and it goes down just after he is clear of the falling deck. It does not lay completely flat, instead balancing on the hump of sand that Zhenya had pushed back two lengths in his efforts, but when he steps over the mast and around to stand at the prow, he can see the keel sitting well-clear of the pit he dug around it.

A mighty gust of wind hits him out of nowhere, strong enough to make him stagger, before settling down to a normal morning breeze. Zhenya squints suspiciously and says, “Was that--”

 **_I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT YOU’RE TALKING ABOUT_** , Sid interrupts: not suspicious at all.

“Well, in that case, I suppose I will thank the gods of wind and not you,” Zhenya teases.

 **_ABSOLUTELY NOT_** , Sid says immediately, and his irritation stings against Zhenya’s skin; it’s been so long since Sid has shown genuine negativity towards him that it’s a surprise. Instead of letting the moment pass, though, Zhenya must prod at the wound and find its shape.

“Why not? It is ungrateful of me to not offer my devotions to those that offer their godly powers on my behalf,” Zhenya says, false-innocent. “I would hate to be struck down by another god for impertinence while in your service.”

**_THERE IS NO IMPERTINENCE EXCEPT THAT TOWARDS ME, FOR ALL GODLY BLESSING YOU ARE GIVEN ARE FROM ME.  WHAT HAS THE REMAINDER OF THE PARTHENON EVER DONE FOR YOU? NOTHING. I BRING YOU FAVORABLE WINDS AND WEATHER, AID FOR YOUR TASKS, AND SUSTENANCE TO KEEP YOU ALIVE._ **

“Perhaps, but you have also attempted to feed me rotten sheep before! That is not dinner, but death!” Zhenya says, equally as indignant as Sid, easily sucked into a false feud as he ever is with the god.

 **_THAT IS BUT ONE OF MANY TIMES THAT I HAVE FED YOU, WHY DO YOU HOLD THIS OVER ME? AT LEAST I MADE AN_ ** **ATTEMPT** ** _. WHEN IS THE LAST TIME ALECTRONA ATTENDED TO YOU? OR MATTON?_ **

“Can you truly call yourself my attendant while not fulfilling all of my bodily needs?” Zhenya asks. He feels his face drain of all blood as he realizes his pertness. “I-- my apologies, I do not mean to offend--” He scrabbles for words to undo the damage, but Sid’s frigid silence unnerves him.

 **_I WILL RETURN,_ ** Sid says ominously, and Zhenya cradles his head in his hands as he curses. There is no point in putting off his work for worrying over Sid, though, and so he stares at his ship as he thinks. It will be more stable to tip it further over, but after a certain point, the masts will be in the way, as well as the tallest point of the prow. Removing it seems as good of a use as any for the self-recrimination and general fury bubbling through his veins, so he sharpens the axe and attacks the mast, hissing at his own stupidity on every stroke and channeling his anger into his muscles as the boat splinters.

The sun has trodden through much of his path for the day by the time he takes off the masts and whittles down the prow, and it hangs low over the sea as Zhenya wipes his brow. He looks up at the sky, twisting his neck to relieve the ache from bending over, and squints incredulously at a bird bumbling down from the great blueness towards him. Its round body and frantic flapping look out of place amongst the soaring gulls and cormorants, and-- it’s a _puffin?_

It drops like a stone to land before Zhenya, and indeed it is a puffin, crisp black and white feathers and striped orange beak, just like the ones of his childhood home. There is, amazingly, a piece of parchment tied to its leg, and it raises its leg and waits patiently as Zhenya untangles the string and unrolls it. The handwriting is thin, precise but nondescript, and reads: _Alectrona has not ATTENDED to you, nor has Matton or any other god or goddess I know. She is a poor lover anyway so it is for the best._

“How do _you_ know she’s a poor lover?” Zhenya announces, his face burning with its flush, but no answer arrives, no stirring of the wind or crackle of electricity announces Sid’s return, so he spends his evening alone.

Sid is there the next morning-- though quiet and pointedly avoiding their discussion from yesterday-- and the puffin is gone, but the piece of parchment still rests in Zhenya’s fist. He tucks it safely beside the albatross feather in his belt-pouch and stares again at the ship. It has settled some overnight, sinking closer to the sand keelward, which is the last thing that Zhenya wants. Yet he despairs at moving it without any assistance; it is surely heavier than thirty or forty men, and not even godly inspiration can bring a single man to move such weight.

There is nothing for it, though, but to attempt; not even the sweetest words would wheedle Sid into providing him enough men to move the ship, Zhenya is sure of it. He sees the mast, lying off to the side, and is struck with inspiration. He drags it around to the keelward side of the ship, stopping several times to catch his breath and wipe his brow, and evaluates it critically against the keel. It is long enough and firm enough to act as a good lever, should he place it properly beneath the keel. All he needs is a steady surface to brace it against, and he has a chance of sliding the ship forward, though likely not flipping it completely.

After searching, the steady surface comes in the form of a rock sunk contentedly into the mud of the river that brought Zhenya his first meal via Sid. Zhenya evaluates the rock, hands propped on his hips, and huffs occasionally as he creates new ideas of moving it and discards them. Eventually, he is stuck with his first thought: lever the stone free with a sturdy branch, and tie a rope about it and drag it to the beach and through. He spends the day freeing the rock and moving it, one painful step at a time, out to the boat.

Zhenya is exhausted, physically and mentally, by the time the sun begins to kiss the horizon, but the rock is positioned where he wants it. He collapses next to his cooking fire, groaning as he attempts to roll aches out of his muscles; whatever hurts today will cripple tomorrow, and he is too impatient to waste any time on such a large task. For all the difficulty so far, nothing will compare to attempting to remove the keel without causing undue damage, and it will be the work of days and not hours.

He stares into the gentle crackle of his fire as the sun slips fully beneath the water, and as the sky shades towards black, he notices a wavering _thing_ in the corner of his eye. He turns to see a the ghostly violet figure of Sid, this time vaguely human-sized with a discernible head but few features beyond the dark slash of a mouth and the golden-and-violet flicker of a godheart.

 **_WHAT_** , Sid says irritably, and it’s strange to see a mouth move in coordination with the voice that lives between Zhenya’s ears.

“Nothing,” Zhenya says, because it’s better than _I wish I could see your face better_. It seems too fraught after his slip yesterday about Sid attending to his needs, and so instead they sit in silence, watching as the fire sinks lower until it is mere coals and then nothing.

\------

Three days later, three miserable, back-breaking, sun-scorching days later, the ship has been tipped downward into a pit, angling the keel up, and said keel is about one-quarter removed. Zhenya has sharpened his axe no less than five times, screamed invective to the gods eight times, and very nearly shouted invective _about_ the gods-- really, just one in particular-- once. Keels are not made to be separated from ships, as Zhenya reminds Sid so many times through gritted teeth at Sid’s insistence of **_NO, YOU MUST CUT DEEPER,_ ** immediately followed by, **_NO, NOT IN_ ** **THAT** **_MANNER, DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND?_ **

Blessedly, the _Kallikhthus_ is a sturdy old craft build in the traditional fashion. The keel is not the broad, many-planked bottom of a newer rammed warship, which would be a nightmare to disassemble. Rather, it is a single thick piece of wood, running the length of the ship from the tall prow to the shorter stern and bent in a careful curve. It stands a hands-length high when measured from the join of the curve of the ship to the bottom and juts out perpendicular from the bottom of the ship. After much bickering, Sid reluctantly admits that he requires only the keel-piece except at the prow, where it must be wider, two hands’ widths additionally past the keel itself. Zhenya has started from the stern, and dread bubbles in his stomach as to how to extract as much of the prow as Sid has requested, but that is a problem for another day, perhaps even next week. As the keel broadens towards midship, it will be more difficult to continue separating the keel without cracking the wood after it that is still attached, and he will only go slower each day.

As he labors on the fourth day, working at a crawl, he is drawn into the kind of contemplation that his mother warned him against. _You are not meant for the big thoughts, my son_ , she always said. _You are one of great deeds, not great words, and it is always wise to play towards the blessings the gods give you, for nothing but pain comes from acting against those gifts_. Sid is worryingly silent, though, and his labors steal any breath from him that could be used for shanty-singing or other time-filling babbling, so Zhenya bends his head and thinks of keels.

A ship without a keel is a disaster waiting to happen. It is unsteady, tipped by the gentlest wind or shift of her crew upon its decks, and difficult to direct. Zhenya’s father called a ship’s keel its  spine; _like us, without a spine, he has no form or function, and is instead squandered_. Now he peels from his beloved ship its greatest strength, and he thinks of losing his crew, how he felt removed of his greatest strength, tipped and flooded by every tiny emotion, directionless without Sid’s insistent prodding. Taking this keel will replace the one he lost with another, a keel built on Sid, so that he is a ship steadied for his final journey.

And perhaps-- perhaps the _Kallikhthus_ , too, is stable enough for its final journey, to sail to a glorious death just as Zhenya does. The thought bubbles in his mind as he works, and the labor slows enough that he finds he can sing. He barrels into a miserable rendition of his uncle’s favorite sea song and ignores Sid’s sounds of shock at some of his less tuneful moments.

“Of all things, of all tasks you could give me, why must you ask for a keel?” Zhenya finally breaks and asks on the sixth day. He has already tried to ask several times in more subtle ways, but Sid conveniently misunderstood each previous question, driving him to ask so plainly.

 **_BECAUSE THAT IS WHAT I DESIRE_** , Sid snaps.

Zhenya rolls his eyes at the heat-shimmer that he has come to realize is Sid, currently lurking by the prow of the _Kallikhthus._ “Yes, I understand this,” he says patiently. “But why do you desire, so _particularly_ , for a keel of precise proportions removed from a perfectly hale ship?”

 **_...THE SECOND PART OF THIS TASK IS TO TAKE THE KEEL TO MY TEMPLE. THIS IS WHY I HAVE SO MANY REQUIREMENTS_**.

“To your temple?” Zhenya half-shouts in his excitement. Finally, the mystery of Sid and his common name is close to being solved. Will he meet Sid’s priests and devotees? That thought tempers his excitement; it is one thing to be a hero as he always dreamed of, and quite another to be placed by others upon a pedestal next to their god. Zhenya has never been one to draw much attention to himself, and the thought of a high priest crowing over him and his keel stings. Hopefully they will be few in number, to limit Zhenya’s embarrassment, though he fears it does not bode well for Sid if his cult has grown so thin.

 **_YES, TO MY TEMPLE. THE PURPOSE OF THE KEEL AND ITS PRECISE SHAPE WILL BECOME CLEAR TO YOU ONCE YOU HAVE ARRIVED_**.

Zhenya gnashes his teeth; so close and yet so far from the knowledge that teases him. He grows no closer to the information even as he creeps toward the prow of the ship, progress sometimes measured in hand-lengths per day as he delicately chips away around the keel until it is freed.

\------

Zhenya cracks the prow neatly from the hull early in the morning four days later, back aching and arms shaking. He steps back to view his success: a perfect arc of keel, pristine from stem to stern, topped by a broader section at the prow. The keel is nearly as tall as Zhenya on each end, stretching thin but deceptively strong between the thinner curve of the stern and the broad chunk of prow.

It is going to be utter misery to move.

That is absolutely tomorrow’s problem, if not the next day’s. If this labor has not earned him a day or two of rest, then Sid is a far less forgiving god than Zhenya knows him to be. And indeed, Sid does not push him to begin moving the keel immediately, though he does ask hesitantly after Zhenya has lain spread-eagle on the sand for nearly an hour, **_WHAT DO YOU PLAN FOR, CHAMPION?_ **

“A chance to rest my aching body and cleanse my aching soul,” he says, no little satisfaction as turning Sid’s mysteriousness back upon him. The thought that drifted through his mind at the beginning of removing the keel has returned and sings a tempting song. Give his ship one final, glorious voyage, and let it shine in the night for a brief moment just as he will soon, a flaring beacon quickly extinguished.

 **_AS YOU WISH,_ ** Sid says. A wistfulness soaks through his words, and Zhenya aches to smooth away whatever troubles him. He is shocked into laughter when he realizes his thought-- a mortal, wishing to rectify the burdens of a god-- and at Sid’s inquisitive noise, shakes his head.

“Just a strange thought,” he parries. It doesn’t seem the right moment to show his insanity, his devotion beyond the necessary to Sid. “I will rest here, and then I must do a labor of my own choosing, to satisfy my final obligations before completing my duties as your champion.”

Sid says nothing in return, but a sea tern busies itself while Zhenya rests, neatly piling figs and a few sprigs of grapes next to him. After the warmth of the sand beneath him has baked deep into his body, relieving at least some of the aches of these past days, he sits up and eats with a muttered “thank you,” staring at the ship. He will need some logs, and perhaps he will wet the sand. Even with that help, it will be difficult, a feat of strength like none other he has attempted before.

Zhenya will do it anyway.

He has the stage set by midafternoon. The rock he used to lever the ship down is now on the other side, next to the deck, as is the mast, ragged and cracking as it is. It will serve its purpose without failure, most likely, and that is all Zhenya can ask. Next to the now-flat bottom of the ship lie seven sturdy logs, sitting at the bottom of a widened pit with a gently sloping front towards the sea and jutting out long-ways away from the ship. Sid had made a choked-off noise of understanding as Zhenya began to lay the logs, so at least he is not entirely ignorant of the methods of moving landed ships.

The hardest part will be dragging such a ship under his own power; the second hardest part will be standing it back up again. Waiting will not make it any easier, nor less intimidating, so Zhenya blows out a heavy sigh and shakes out his limbs. The mast fits neatly under the railing and braces tight against both the hull and the rock, and he grunts with effort as he leans on the end of the mast, his feet sliding in the sand and the mast slipping out of place against the rock.

Zhenya growls in frustration but resets and throws his body upon the mast-end. He is left with his feet dangling in the air and the ship unmoving, and he shouts this time, a wordless fury. He settles upon the sand, arms crossed tight to restrain his frustration, and finds himself half-waiting for an impertinent comment from Sid, but none arrives. There is nothing for it but to try again, so he grasps the mast-end for his next attempt.

It is only once Zhenya tenses, pulling down with every ounce of strength, that the hairs on his body raise in ghostly premonition, every muscle shivering in warning. He cannot react in time before a blinding light destroys his vision while his body is filled from top to bottom with a terrifying, tingling strength, starting with a single, painful point on the top of his head. The light fades to the purple marks that linger after staring into the sun, and Zhenya _pulls_ , the ship creaking as it slowly tips upward under his force. It slides neatly down into the ditch, the flat bottom catching and holding on the logs that await it, and Zhenya drops the mast to stare incredulously at his own hands. He pats frantically at his body, from the strange epicenter of the pain at the top of his head to the bottoms of his feet, but he finds no irregularities.

“Sid, what--” he asks desperately, panicked by the purple that still blurs his vision and the proof of a feat of strength beyond his capability.

 **_AS YOU HAVE HELPED ME IN BEING MY CHAMPION, SO NOW I AM ABLE TO HELP YOU_** , Sid says quietly.

“Why?” Zhenya asks, astonished. He had expected, at best, quiet grumblings from Sid over the delay as he tends to his ship’s final journey, not godly assistance to spring him past the powers of mortals.

 **_WHY DO YOU COMPLETE THE TASKS I SET TO YOU, NO MATTER HOW INCOMPREHENSIBLE OR USELESS TO YOU THEY ARE?_ ** Sid asks. Zhenya feels his face heat, the terror of Sid acknowledging Zhenya’s rogue feelings rising like bile in his chest as his tongue grows too thick in his mouth to provide platitudes. **_I AM NOT WITHOUT RESPECT TOWARDS YOUR NEEDS IN RETURN TO THE RESPECT YOU SHOW ME, IGNORANT THOUGH I MAY BE OF THEM SOMETIMES_** , Sid continues, and-- well, if he wishes to believe that _respect_ is Zhenya’s motivation, then so be it. After all, it is not strictly untrue, as he has no small interest in directly... _respecting..._ certain parts of Sid.

Zhenya banishes that thought as it only causes him to flush darker and risk even more damning physical reactions. “Thank you,” he opts to say instead, because he does appreciate Sid’s strange gift of strength, even if Zhenya suspects it was delivered via thunderbolt.

 **_YOU’RE WELCOME, THOUGH I WOULD SUGGEST YOU MOVE QUICKLY BEFORE THE BLESSING WEARS OFF AND YOUR SHIP REMAINS LANDED_** , Sid says, so Zhenya hastens.

The strength brought to him on a lightning bolt fizzles through his bones as he loops a rope around the remaining prow and _pulls_ , inching the ship forward on its rollers. He runs quickly back and forth, pulling the final roller and replacing it under the prow as he shifts the ship closer and closer to the high tide line, the sand there still wet and firm and a much better surface for moving the ship on. Just as he passes the wrack line, he feels the strength leave him in another, smaller shock, and only desperation and momentum brings the entire ship past the wrack line and within the tideline. Zhenya collapses upon the sand, arms and legs burning, and tries not to weep.

The tide will not come in until after the sun has set, Zhenya estimates, so he whiles much of the rest of the day away with tiny pursuits: walking along the shoreline and finding flat rocks to bounce along the water, sitting in contemplation of the life that stretches behind him and ends abruptly before him, resting his aching muscles by soaking in the sea and then baking on the sand. Sid provides him dinner without undue inquiry in the shape of a fine eel scared forth from the deep and another collection of figs and grapes.

As the sun sinks towards the horizon, Zhenya makes the final preparations for the ship. He takes the sails from where they rested within the bowels of the ship and bundles them in the center of the deck. The mast is well-cracked, and it takes only the application of his foot and a sharp tug of his arm to fully break it in twain, and it too is stacked upon the deck and across the sails. Underneath the deck, Zhenya finds the sticks of pitch kept for emergency repairs, and adds them to the top, nestling them tidily within the sails and next to the mast pieces.

Just the barest sliver of sun remains above the horizon as Zhenya finishes his work, and his feet grow cold with the first bites of the incoming tide. He hurries now, running back to the forest to find kindling-- how could he forget to gather kindling?-- and when he returns, the prow of the ship is beginning to yaw with each wave, though her stern sits firmly anchored still. He climbs up the stern handily, carefully laying the kindling in a path from the deck railing to the sticks of pitch lying on the sails. When he feels the stern cut loose under his feet and the whole ship take to her keel, or lack thereof, he lights the far end of the kindling and scampers down.

As soon as Zhenya splashes down into the wavelets of the incoming tide, there is the mighty slurp of a changing tide, and the _Kallikhthus_ is dragged out on a rip current. It is fifteen lengths from shore and already sinking when the pitch catches, flaring bright, and Zhenya watches stoically as the flames catch and engulf it. It wipes out the stars with its bright fire, its final voyage unforgettable, and Zhenya thinks-- _soon, soon._ Soon he will take his voyage, flaring bright, and he can only hope for victory in his death.

The _Kallikhthus_ tips over, flames extinguished in fizzle too far to hear, and sinks below the surface. Now, there is nothing left of Zhenya but himself and his devotion to Sid. Now, he is ready to be entirely the champion of his god.

\------

“Where must I take the keel?” are Zhenya’s first words the next morning, even before he has broken his fast. Urgency dances in his bones now, yet his gaze knows not where to turn.

**_NORTH, TOWARDS THE SEA STACK WHERE YOU TOOK THE ALBATROSS FEATHER. THIS TIME, YOU WILL GO UP THE CLIFFS, AND FIND YOUR DESTINATION THERE._ **

The three-day trip to the sea stack unburdened becomes eight while dragging the keel. There is no fine way to grip it, no easy way to exert force that does not leave half his body more drained than the other. He regrets burning all of the rope upon the ship, but there is no fair place to secure it, so perhaps it is not so great a loss as he fears. After the second day, he finds the best method is to place the stern upon his shoulder and allow the prow tip to drag through the sand. It is thin enough to not pick up too much of a mountain of sand before it, and Zhenya can switch which shoulder he balances the stern on as each arm tires.

When he arrives at the cliff, though, the task grows no easier. The keel has no interest in sliding smoothly on dirt, and Zhenya worries for every bump over a stone or smack against a tree. Climbing uphill in addition to this is a great injustice, but Zhenya is sustained by the thought of finally seeing Sid’s temple and knowing his worshipers and those he defends with his sacrifice.

By the sixth day of slogging up and then along the cliff, Zhenya does nothing more than tuck his head down and focus on each painful step forward, stopping only at Sid’s gentle reminders for food. Now the birds bring him fish in addition to fruit, yet even with good sustenance, his mealtimes are filled with nothing but an exhausted, thousand-length stare. Occasionally the glimmer of the sunstone catches his eye, and so he props his wrist upon his knee to stare into its depths as he eats.

Sometimes Sid will ramble at him around the fire at night, soundless words pouring from a child-sized and flickering violet shadow, and Zhenya lets his exhaustion sink low as the flutter of something warmer fills his chest. Still, it is a long and difficult journey, and Zhenya only thinks of the next step he will take, no longer of when he will reach Sid’s temple.

Zhenya doesn’t realize how far he’s travelled along the cliff today-- though he has noticed the nearing of the sun towards the sea on his left and knows that the day comes to a close regardless of the distance travelled-- until his kelp sandal kicks at a large, square block of marble. He curses, hopping without dignity on the other foot until his toe ceases throbbing, and then has to rebalance himself before the weight of the keel tips him. He looks around, trying to find the origin of the stone, but he sees nothing more than overgrown plants and a tumble of rubble before him.

“I knew it, you’ve finally sent me on a fruitless quest,” Zhenya complains loudly, hefting the end of the keel up onto his shoulder as he shouts into nothingness. “Must you really be so fickle? Why could you not amuse yourself by sending me on a quest for sweets, or for the finest young man in the land--”

 **_YOU HAVE ARRIVED_** , Sid says, and for the first time, he’s so quiet that Zhenya must strain to hear him above the chirps of bugs and the rustle of the breeze.

“You sent me to your temple,” Zhenya protests. “This is a ruin.” He waits, but there is no response. “Sid?” he asks, but still only silence greets him, so he grasps again the end of the keel and drags it forward. As he nears the rubble, it starts to take shape-- here is the outer facade, there are the side walls, yonder was a dedication garden. He bends to slowly deposit his end of the keel upon the ground as he approaches what must have been the top of the outer facade. Plants and dirt are worn deep into the carvings, and long moments pass as he brushes at filth and tugs at stubborn stems. Eventually, he can brush the stretch of marble clean enough to see a word: ἁλικτυπος.

“Haliktupos,” he reads slowly. “Sea-smitten.” The tiny kernel of unease that has lived in Zhenya’s chest since the shipwreck flares to life. “Who are you?” he demands to the marble. There is no answer, so he stands and turns to stare down the mountain at the calm sea before him. “ _Who are you?!_ ”

 **_SID_** , he murmurs.

Zhenya gnashes his teeth. “I _know_ \--”

 **_ENALOSIDE_**.

Zhenya’s lips move as he silently, numbly repeats the word to himself. _Gift of the sea_. The first sea-god, overthrown by Libadion in a battle of champions and swiftly forgotten, faded into obscurity for generations.

 **_WILL YOU LEAVE ME NOW, CHAMPION?_ ** Sid asks, and something sharp rides on the edge of his whisper.

An answer leaps to Zhenya’s tongue, but he forces himself to take a deep breath and think, truly _think_. He will not fight for the honor of a god with the power of a thousand believers behind him, or even a hundred or ten. He will not be prepared for battle by priests, nor will he have devotees tend to his wounds. He will be alone as he lays down his life for a god that is already deposed, that is nothing. As much as he had dreaded the pomp and attention while he removed the keel, it is quite another thing to know that he goes forth entirely unsupported.

But-- this god is not nothing. This god is Sid: mischievous, shining, quick to take a challenge and quick to sulk should he lose. He has welcomed Zhenya’s impertinence and returned it twofold. He has been more kind than any god would be to a mere mortal, champion or no.

“I will not leave you, Enaloside,” Zhenya says, and a salt-sweet breeze from the sea like a sigh ruffles his hair and smooths along his cheek. “What is your will?”

 **_TAKE THE KEEL INTO THE TEMPLE_** , Sid says, so Zhenya hefts one end upon his shoulder and begins to drag it again. He must lift it bodily over no few stones in his way, and he grunts with the effort but does not complain. Once he is within the ragged piles of stone denoting the walls, he waits, but Sid offers no more guidance.

At the far end of the temple, two waist-high stones still stand proud, beacons against the ruins. Zhenya nears them, the keel continuously bumping over rock, and he sees hollows in the top, perfectly shaped to accept--

It is the work of mere minutes, but still Zhenya is sweating and panting as he settles the keel firmly into the stones. He has not eaten or drunk all day, and just now the labor of his religious pilgrimage catches him in the knees and knocks him to the ground. He sprawls inelegantly, ignoring the marble shards amongst the dirt digging into his back as he pants and stares up at the velvet spread of the night sky.

“Are you happy now?” he asks the first glitter of stars above him once he’s caught his breath.

 **_I MUST ASK ONE MORE THING OF YOU_** , Sid says, and something quiet and sad lurks in his voice.

Zhenya sighs heavily. “Always one more thing, again and again. This time, please, let it be a pretty temple maid that I must find, or an amphora of the finest wine for me to slake my thirst with, I beg of you.”

An answer does not drop immediately into Zhenya’s mind, and he relaxes as he listens to the tiny sounds of birds settling in to sleep. Finally, Sid says, **_I AM WITHOUT A HIGH PRIEST. MY STRENGTH WILL BE GREAT, SHOULD MY CULT BE FORMED AGAIN._ **

“So I must find you a priest?” Zhenya asks, frowning to himself. “I doubt it will be that difficult-- I am sure there are some sailors who believe in the tales and power of the old over the new. I will find one worthy of you.”

 **_I HAVE ALREADY FOUND HIM_** , Sid says.

Zhenya hums doubtfully. How has this priest proven his worthiness? Is he truly holy enough for Sid? Does he understand the waves, the wind, the passion of the ocean? “Where is he? How will _I_ find him?” Surely he can test the mettle of this man before he is allowed to become Sid’s, so there is no point in delaying.

Again, Sid’s answer is not immediate. Zhenya waits with a veneer of patience as his limbs begin to fall into a slumber from the pressure of the rocky ground he lies on. Eventually, he shifts to shake off the buzz, but it only grows stronger, swarming up his limbs and vibrating deep within his chest. He can feel his hair raise as the air crackles about him, and he swallows nervously.

 **_YOU DID NOT LEAVE ME ON THE STEPS OF MY TEMPLE, CHAMPION, AND SO NOW YOU SHALL STAY FOREVER. YOU ARE MY CHAMPION, MY HIGH PRIEST, MY CULT INCARNATE_**.

Zhenya collapses back against the ground, eyes closed. A very tiny part of him screams in fear, in rage, in helplessness, but the rest of him has arrived home. There is no man on earth that Zhenya would deem worthy of serving Sid, and so he shall do it himself.

“I accept,” Zhenya says. “But you knew I would, didn’t you? Damn you, but you are always right.”

**_AND SO MY REQUEST IS NOT SO SIMPLE. I ASK THAT YOU GIVE YOUR STRENGTH TO MY TEMPLE. YOU MUST WRITE YOUR DEVOTION TO ME._ **

“Is that all?” Zhenya asks doubtfully.

 **_OF COURSE NOT. YOU MUST WRITE IT UPON THE KEEL THAT IS MY ALTAR, USING A PEN OF THE SACRED ALBATROSS FEATHER, AND IN YOUR BLOOD._ ** A thread of mirth winds through Sid’s voice, twisting with the quiet sadness.

“Well, is _that_ all?” Zhenya repeats, this time with ill humor, and the ocean breeze pops a tiny shrug across his face.

**_THE WORDS MUST BE YOUR OWN, BUT ALL ELSE IS PRESCRIBED._ **

“And who am I to dispute the will of the gods?” Zhenya says. Unsurprisingly, Sid does not deign to answer him. Zhenya heaves himself upright and waves a hand lazily in the air. “Then depart, o spirit of the seas, so I may write in peace and give only my own words to your temple.”

Zhenya never notices the effect of Sid’s presence until he departs. The quiet fizz of waves and slide of sand disappears from the back of his mind, replaced by echoing silence and a strange physical emptiness. He waits one breath, two, three, until the unsettling echo quiets within him before hauling himself up to stand next to the keel. He reaches into his tunic to remove the albatross feather, still securely wrapped in kelp, and grips it as he stares at the wider prow end of the keel.

 _You must write your devotion to me_. The gods don’t ask for much, do they, Zhenya thinks despondently to himself. His devotion to Sid lives in his chest, in his bones, in every inch of his flesh that prickles with the absence of godly influence. To turn something so consuming and visceral into words is a challenge far beyond any other given to him, and yet he must once again emerge the victor, not for his own sake but for Sid’s.

Zhenya contemplates. He finds a stick and scrawls rough lines into the dirt at his feet, shaking his head and kicking them into oblivion as he finds them inadequate again and again. The eastern sky is banded with the first hint of dawn when he surveys the latest set of words and finds them… not satisfying or perfect, but also not disappointing. Zhenya suspects that nothing more apt or elegant will come from his pen and so he concedes.

It is the work of a moment to trim a point into the shaft of the albatross feather. His knife is sharp, and the cut he draws across his palm is nearly painless. He cups his hand and lets the blood pool before dipping the albatross pen in and crouching to squint at the keel. He writes confidently upon the prow; the wood grain is fully smoothed by years of slicing through ocean waves, and his pen does not hesitate or catch as he replicates the words sketched on the ground behind him.

_To the great god Enaloside, King of Oceans, Bringer of Storms, Lord of Waves and Father of Sands, I give my body, my mind, and my heart. My body to be used as champion. My mind to be used as priest. And my heart to be used as he wishes._

As he completes the final letter with a sharp stroke, everything goes white. His breath freezes in his lungs as the world squeezes in about him and a roar fills his ears. The moment stretches on-- airless, sightless, drowning under a wild crash of noise-- until it ends as abruptly as it began. Zhenya sags to his hands and knees, drawing in shaky gasps as he assures himself of the firm and slightly cool stone beneath him.

Firm… stone? He opens his eyes to stare, puzzled, at the fine marble floor beneath his hands. It is a beautiful shade of light blue like the shallows of the sea, and it shines as if an acolyte has spent all morning polishing it.

Zhenya sits back on his heels and looks up. Before, he could see the rubble of an ancient ruin stretch about him and, far in the distance, the horizon over the sea. Now, he sees nothing but the interior of a massive, glittering temple. Thousands of sunstones line the walls and hang from the ceiling, glowing with violet-edged divine light and bringing an unearthly brightness to the temple. They illuminate the altar and throw into sharp relief the rough, splintered top of the keel and the still-wet red letters of Zhenya’s devotion. So he has not been transported somewhere else-- or at least, if he has, the keel has come with him.

The smell of saltwater drifts past Zhenya’s nose, and he peeks under the keel to see a massive ankle-deep pool stretching nearly wall-to-wall in the main body of the temple. It sparkles with the light of the sunstones and moves according to godly forces, filling the echoing chasm of the temple with the sounds of gentle laps and splashes. The tile below it curls in intricate, colorful forms that Zhenya cannot fully see-- perhaps mighty sea battles, perhaps Enaloside blessing the waters, perhaps something else.

The thought of Enaloside prompts Zhenya to stand and turn to face the head of the temple, and he must immediately lean back against the keel to support himself at the sight of the cult statue. It is easily ten times the height of a man, standing in silent contemplation and looking over the tiny sea before it. It skin is the smoothest, palest marble while its tumbled curls are lovingly reproduced in jet, and yet upon examination, Zhenya finds its greatness lacking in comparison even to his faint memories of Sid himself. Still, it is an impressive sight in its scale and dedication to detail, and Zhenya studies it until the muffled sound of a bare foot on mable interrupts him. He looks down to see Sid standing quietly next to the foot of his own statue.

“Thank you,” Sid says quietly, and unlike his statue, his eyes are bright and his legs bowed and Zhenya is helpless, helpless in the face of his god.

“You’re welcome,” Zhenya chokes out, and his pulse jumps as Sid steps towards him. He is just like the memory-dream from so long ago, when he declared Zhenya his champion, but to see him in person after so much time… Zhenya is drawn to him like a moth to the flame, sure to be burnt up but determined to live in glory before he dies. Sid passes him by, though, instead reaching out to the inscription on the keel and looking at it meditatively. The blood still glistens under his hand, Zhenya notices, and Sid very carefully does not actually touch the keel.

“This part of you shall always live on, regardless of the fate that befalls you,” Sid says, his hand hovering over the words, and Zhenya swallows dryly. Sid doesn’t fulfill Zhenya’s fear and ask about the meaning of his dedication, though, instead turning to walk back towards the statue with a gesture calling Zhenya to him. Zhenya follows-- helpless, helpless-- to find an alcove behind the statue filled with podia, each one topped with a single item. Sid lovingly touches each object as he goes down the line, finally pausing at the central podium supporting a wicked fish-spear. Stained by the ichor of the gods and the blood of men, the spear glitters darkly as Sid picks it up and turns to Zhenya.

“I have fought wars with this spear that no mortal can understand,” Sid says softly, and the glow of his godheart reflects eerily from the metal point. “It was mine for a thousand years, but now I will entrust it to you to show my strength and defend my honor.”

“Thank you,” Zhenya says hoarsely, and at Sid’s urging gesture holds forth his hands. Sid settles the spear into his palms, and once against he feels the zip of Sid’s power through his body. The spear is half again as long as his arm, topped by a flat double-edged leaf blade as long as Zhenya’s hand and half as wide, wickedly sharp. The shaft of the spear is smoothest driftwood, sun bleached to a faint greyish white, with a grip lashed about its middle in thin rope. He hefts it, and it balances well in his hand when he holds it at the rope grip. It is a strange weapon to take against another man-- Zhenya would prefer a knife or sword, in truth-- but given the sharp gleam of the blade, it will still be effective.

“And now you are truly my champion,” Sid says, eyes gleaming. He is not Enaloside in Zhenya’s mind, Zhenya realizes with a shock; Enaloside is the statue that rules over the temple, who waits for the devotees to flock to him and fuel his cult. Sid is Zhenya’s companion, occasional irritant, and voice between his ears. Sid is who Zhenya trusts and follows and defends and dies for, the god small enough to tuck under his chin, not the imposing, blank-eyed statue.

“That I am,” Zhenya says lowly, stepping forward to place the spear back upon the podium that Sid removed it from, ignoring Sid’s inquisitive noise. He is filled with the sudden bravery of impending death, his heart floating free from any concerns past this moment. He knows only what he desires and how to achieve it, and so-- he _will_.

Zhenya steps closer to Sid, within easy arm’s reach, and studies him. It is a relief to match this reality against his faint dream-memory and embellish it, adding in the way his lips quirk to one side, his nostrils flare gently, his lashes brush against his cheek. After speaking to the sky for so long, it is odd to tilt his head downwards to speak to Sid. Sid’s chin begins to jut forward defiantly in the silence, his lips tightening as his eyebrows draw down in uncertainty, and Zhenya cannot have that. He raises a thumb and smoothes away the line between Sid’s eyebrows, and a thrill shivers down his spine as Sid’s face relaxes in response, lips parting to exhale a tiny breath.

Sid is _beautiful_ , and Zhenya smiles hopelessly at him, frozen in his gesture and thumb still in place on Sid’s forehead. “Are you well?” Sid asks, and Zhenya is close enough to feel the words thrum between them, feel the tiny movements in Sid’s face as he speaks through his thumb.

Zhenya halts the sighing, dreamy _yes_ at his lips. “No, I am not,” he says lowly, and instantly Sid’s face collapses into concern. Zhenya could spend hours studying the movements of Sid’s expressions, the bright smile that he is sure hides within to the ravages of grief or misery. “I find myself with a need unattended so long that a great thirst grows, one that strangles me and leaves life duller.”

Panic sets Sid’s breathing quick and his eyes wide. “What need?” he asks urgently, his hand coming up to rest on Zhenya’s ribs where his hand is still raised to Sid’s forehead. “What grievous error have I made, champion? How may I make amends for your thirst?”

“It is good that you ask, for you are the only one who can slake this great need,” Zhenya says, stepping closer to Sid and letting his hand drop from Sid’s forehead and onto his shoulder. It is broad and strong under Zhenya’s hand, burning with vitality, and he remembers-- _he_ brought Sid this new life.

Perhaps it is foolish to take pride in this, for in the end, he is still but a mortal and Sid a god. Yet it is an irrefutable fact that his devotion has had this effect, bringing Sid from a wispy and shapeless violet shadow to the vibrant, blood-warm creature before him now. It may not bring them closer in any way other than the physical or narrow the stark divide in reality between them, but it does embolden Zhenya, as does the curious lift of Sid’s eyebrows and gentle round of his questioning lips. There seems to be as good as any of a place to start, so Zhenya ducks his head and murmurs, “My thirst lives in my lips, crying out for the gentle touch of yours; in my skin, weeping for the strength of your body against mine; and in my passion, pleading for a fire within you to match the inferno within me.”

Sid looks deep into Zhenya’s eyes, searching for something, and Zhenya lets his soul sit open, baring everything that he was and is and will be to his god. Whatever Sid sees causes him to close his eyes and give a little huff that caresses Zhenya’s face. Sid raises his hand-- not the one still resting upon Zhenya’s ribs, warm and curved possessively about the side of his body-- and cradles Zhenya’s face with it, the heel of his palm tucked against Zhenya’s chin and the fingers reaching to graze his temple. He leans forward, pressing a chaste kiss against Zhenya’s lips, and then pulls back to speak. “Do you doubt the fire that you see with your own eyes?” Sid chides, using his hand to angle Zhenya’s head further downwards to look directly at the hissing golden-and-violet godheart burning in his chest. “Do you think that the passions of mortals could even compare to those of the gods? You forget so quickly, though, that I have touched your lips with my blessed seawater to heal you and given your skin the taste of my strength to energize you to return your ship to the ocean. All that you ask for is already given, so I challenge you: what truly do you desire?”

“You,” Zhenya says, half on a sob, and Sid steps forwards to wrap his arms entirely about Zhenya, cradling him.

“And that is already given, too,” Sid whispers, and though his mouth is tucked near Zhenya’s shoulder, Zhenya can hear the words as clearly as if they were shouted.

Zhenya’s passions cannot be contained any longer; somehow, he turns Sid’s face towards his own and leans in to take another kiss, this one far less innocent. Sid responds eagerly, pushing at Zhenya in his haste, until Zhenya’s back meets the chill surface of the wall dividing the alcove from the nave. Zhenya is dizzy; he can feel the heat of Sid’s godheart against his chest, not hot like the fire it mimics but instead hot like the sizzle that burned through his body with Sid’s thunderbolt of power. This is his _god_ whose body presses against his own. Not just Sid, but Enaloside, in his own temple, and Zhenya falters. What is he thinking? What delusions of grandeur does he suffer under?

Sid does not take Zhenya’s slack-jawed pause as discouragement, however, and moves to explore further, kissing along Zhenya’s jaw and neck until he squeaks. Sid’s response is just a low rumble of satisfaction and a continuation of the assault, and Zhenya again feels faint. He cannot avoid the truth that Sid’s pleasure is no delusion, and Sid’s perusal of Zhenya’s pleasure is no task taken under duress but rather one enthusiastically carried out. That thought alone brings him forth from his stupor and into a frantic response, grasping at Sid’s hips and tugging them close, until they’re pressed flush against each other from knee to chest. It is still not enough, and Zhenya’s fingers slip against the strange, slick fabric of Sid’s toga as he scrabbles for purchase.

Sid, gods bless-- what a strange thing to think in regards to a god, Zhenya thinks in a flicker before letting it go-- understands instantly what Zhenya wants. Sid cups Zhenya’s hands together and pushes them gently away, stepping back to unwind his toga and cast it to the ground. Zhenya cannot stand the distance between them, even though it is less than an arm’s length, and reels Sid back in before he can even undo his belt.

“So impatient,” Sid says on a gentle laugh, but it carries no rebuke, so Zhenya continues apace. He brings their bodies close again while Sid tucks his forehead against Zhenya’s shoulder so he can fumble their belts open. Each belt drops with a clatter against the marble, and Zhenya draws Sid tighter to him, wrapping his arms around the god’s sturdy shoulders and reveling in the warmth of Sid’s tough.

“Of course I am impatient,” Zhenya blurts, because it is either say that or _I could be content for all the time left on this world just with the feeling of your skin against mine_. “It has been so long since I have been touched-- since the merman you gave me, in fact.”

Zhenya aims for teasing in mentioning the merman, but it results in Sid pulling back and turning his face to the side to stare at a podium holding a splinter of gilded wood. “I gave you to him to be touched,” Sid says, a tiny and familiar whine in his voice. “It is not my fault you did not take advantage of the situation.” It’s fascinating to match Sid’s angular, irritated tone to a facial expression, eyebrows pointed down, a wrinkle settling between them, and a cranky twist of the lips form a childish pout that is more attractive than it has any right to be.

Zhenya resists the urge to laugh. “I find it hard to believe that you meant him as such a gift, given how you were in such a temper at the time, telling us to cease kissing before the blessing was even properly given. I suspect any attempts at indiscretion would’ve resulted in the end of the mermaid-- or me!”

Sid sniffs, frown only growing more pronounced, before saying, “Perhaps, perhaps not. Regardless, you had a task to complete-- that was _not_ being indiscreet with the merman, thank you--” Sid adds sharply at Zhenya’s puckish expression, “But you could have chosen to take advantage of the merman’s appearance after you found the sunstone.”

“After I _nearly drowned to death_ and when you were once again shouting at us to separate, you mean?” Zhenya asks shrewdly. “To have a nagging maiden aunt in my ear reminding me of my responsibilities does not set the mood--”

He is cut off by Sid tugging his tunic over his head, choosing to close his mouth rather than have it filled by kelp-cloth. Zhenya sputters when his head is free, but his complaints die on his lips as Sid removes his own tunic, leaving them both standing in loincloth and sandals. Sid’s skin is ivory-pale and smooth, stretched taut over the powerful shapes of muscles, and Zhenya cannot look away or even form words as he admires the sight. By the smug look on Sid’s face, that was his intention, though his own roving eyes give away his equal interest in what has been revealed.

“Will you have me stand while you take me in your wily, godly ways?” Zhenya breathes. The question has nothing to do with the weakness in his knees, or at least that is the lie he tells himself.

Sid laughs. “I am not the seducer here,” he demurs. He steps to the side and grasps a curtain that separates the alcove from the nave, and Zhenya makes an aborted _stop_ gesture as Sid tears it down. Sid cocks an eyebrow at Zheya’s frozen pose and says, “It is only a curtain. It will be replaced quickly, once you restore my cult.”

“You are not the one that had to separate a keel from its ship and drag it all over the mortal realm in order to create those curtains,” Zhenya says pointedly.

Sid sighs, rolling his eyes extravagantly, and shakes the curtain out to lie on the floor with his toga and their tunics. “I will see to it that it is replaced without requiring any further labor of you. Now please, would you join me, or will you hound me for the rest of my days for every breath I take and move I make?”

Zhenya is tempted to stay where he stands and ignore Sid’s open-armed invitation, just to see how far he could push the god, if he could make Sid angry and what Sid would do. This could be his only chance to learn these things about Sid, to see how anger would sit on his brow and flow through his veins. Perhaps he would handle Zhenya roughly, perhaps he would pin Zhenya against the wall and not permit him freedom until Sid’s needs were met, using his heavenly strength to keep Zhenya trapped despite Zhenya’s greater stature. But-- he cannot lie to Sid in this moment. He wants to lay himself bare, give himself to Sid entirely, and take the blessing of Sid’s attention before he goes to his death.

So, after a brief hesitation, he goes. He kneels upon the curtain facing Sid until Sid reaches out and gently tugs him down. Out of nowhere, nervousness strikes, and he hides from Sid, turning his back as he curls to balance himself on his side. Surely Sid will take the opportunity as given, and perhaps he will not be too rough, knowing what Zhenya faces tomorrow. The thought of seeing Sid’s face in pleasure is suddenly too raw, scraping against something dark and terrible within, and so he turns away.

Sid wastes no time in removing Zhenya’s loincloth, which Zhenya expected, but instead of caressing Zhenya in the most intimate of places, he smoothes his hands over every other inch of skin-- even down to trace the shape of Zhenya’s toes and up to ruffle through Zhenya’s hair as his holy wind did so many times. Tension winds along Zhenya’s shoulders and arms every time Sid’s hands leave his body, but they always land in innocuous places, still kind and slow in their movements.

“Just-- _take_ me,” Zhenya grits, when the gentleness of Sid’s hands and the careful attention of their path grows to be too much. “Just take me already. Please?” Zhenya tries to make it sound like a request for his pleasure rather than out of anxious anticipation, but Sid’s hands nevertheless still upon Zhenya’s body. Sid tugs Zhenya onto his back; Zhenya resists, but Sid does not even strain to overcome that resistance, frowning sweetly down at Zhenya, who cuts his eyes away to stare at the wall.

“Why are you so full of impatience?” Sid asks. Zhenya stubbornly lifts his chin and stays silent. “I refuse to hurt you, and I have no oils to ease the way.”

“I am no spoiled boy that expects such luxuries,” Zhenya says, still avoiding Sid’s gaze. “I have been taken under worse conditions than these before.”

“Perhaps you have, but now you are my concubine, and I will not tolerate such mistreatment of you,” Sid parries.

“It was not mistreatment,” Zhenya snaps. _Concubine_? The gall-- “And I am no concubine of yours, just a mortal preparing to walk to his death upon the morrow.”

Sid makes a noise of derision, followed by, “ _Why_ \--” He cuts himself off with a huff, crossing his arms and examining Zhenya critically. “Fine,” he declares. “If you insist on being in such poor humor, then I suppose it is up to me to change that, as you are not motivated to do so yourself at all.”

Zhenya doesn’t even have the time to protest before Sid is crawling across the curtain. Sid presses Zhenya’s knees apart, settling between them, and Zhenya can only gape as Sid wraps his fingers about the base of Zhenya’s flaccid cock and bends forward.

Such an act of subservience-- Zhenya grows to fullness with embarrassing quickness, but who could blame him? A _god_ is debasing himself in the greatest of ways, pleasuring Zhenya with his mouth, and the forbidden nature of the act only amplifies the overwhelming sensations. For long minutes, he can do nothing but accept the soft-wet-heat of Sid’s mouth, his fingers scrabbling at marble and cloth, seeking purchase that is not there. Finally, he sinks his hands into the rich curls on Sid’s head and tries not to pull. Too much.

Zhenya is dazed, and it feels like nothing more than drowning, this time in a sea of Sid, from the firm grip of his hand on Zhenya’s thigh to the occasional, smug looks he gives Zhenya through his eyelashes. In a moment, though, it goes from too-much to not-enough, Zhenya’s skin shivering cold and lonely without the comforting weight of Sid against him. Zhenya shifts a hand from Sid’s hair to curl instead around the god’s cheek and grows faint again as he feels the movements of Sid’s mouth under his palm. “Sid,” he chokes out, and Sid slowly shifts, allowing Zhenya’s cock to fall from his mouth into the chill air. “Come to me, please.”

“I am here,” Sid assures Zhenya, but still he obeys Zhenya’s urging hand, pushing up on his knees and forward until he is propped on his hands and knees above Zhenya. Sid looks inquisitive, but Zhenya’s skin is still cold, so he wraps his arms about Sid’s back and tugs him down. Sid follows obediently-- should he resist, there would be nothing Zhenya could do to move him-- and Zhenya sighs in relief at the buzz of Sid’s godheart against his own mortal one. Their bodies shift with his breath until their cocks touch, and Zhenya is quickly reminded of his own urgency even as he takes wondering pride in the display of Sid’s pleasure from his act to service Zhenya. He cannot resist reaching down and grasping Sid’s cock to test the weight and firmness of it in his hand, and Sid permits him his explorations with a quiet grunt. Too quickly, though, Sid places his hand upon Zhenya’s to still it, and says, a little strained, “Why such haste? I have different plans for you.”

“And my plans do not matter?” Zhenya asks mulishly, but allows Sid to remove his hand and shift them onto their sides, facing each other.

“I am merely suggesting that I have a better one,” Sid says, the damned smug god that he is, but Zhenya cannot argue back because Sid is tucking together his thighs and encouraging Zhenya to thrust between them. Zhenya begins with the intention to go slowly, to savor the softness and smoothness cradling his cock, but too quickly he draws to the edge and casts aside patience in favor of wild abandon. He moves his hands to the same frantic rhythm of his hips, trying to learn and memorize every inch of Sid from the curve of his back to the swell of his buttocks to the breadth of his shoulders. Each moment slips too quickly through Zhenya’s fingers even as he is desperate to hold onto it and give himself one last chance at peace. He comes across the back of Sid’s thighs with a defeated cry, Sid soothing him through it with gentle hands and voice.

Zhenya pants raggedly against Sid’s shoulder, disappointment seeping out of his bones that it is over. Sid’s hand lands upon Zhenya’s cheek, turning it so they can meet eyes again, and-- _oh_. It is not over. Sid’s eyes are still dark, his cock warm and thick against Zhenya’s stomach, and he licks at his lower lip before leaning in to kiss Zhenya again, hot and forceful. Zhenya submits to the god easily; despite Sid’s earlier actions, he has no doubts as to his place with a god, and equally he has no shame or regret in permitting Sid the dominant role.

Sid breaks away to gasp for air, his knuckles bumping against Zhenya’s body as he winds himself tighter and tighter, and Zhenya urges in a near-whisper, “Yes, please, I want to see, _Sid--_ ”

The frustration of earlier is gone; all that is left is the look of pleasure on Sid’s face, the transcendent expression as he spills his seed between them. The bow of his lips becomes a perfect, circular arch, the flush of his cheeks a glorious contrast against the paleness of his skin, and the shine of his eyes a sight to give any dead man life. Zhenya’s eyelids suddenly grow heavy with exhaustion, but he fights their weight until Sid gives a tiny, quiet sigh, a smile curving across his face from the wrinkles around his eyes to the upward tilt of his lips. Zhenya commits it all to memory, and slides into the kind arms of sleep with the warmth of Sid pressed up against him.

\------

Zhenya awakens into soft twilight with a startle; is it early morning, or late evening? How much time has passed? Where is he? He blinks as his mind settles, staring dumbly at rich, blue-veined marble until he remembers. The temple. _Enaloside_. But, more importantly-- Sid.

Zhenya lies upon his side, shoulder crammed uncomfortably into the marble below him, and he stares blankly at the treasures arrayed on the podia about him. Most of the improvised curtain-and-clothes bedding stretches out behind him, and for a second, he fears to turn and see Sid gone, once again reduced to a whisper upon the wind, or worse, absent because he has tired of Zhenya.

Zhenya grits his teeth; he did not kiss a merman, nearly drown, weave his own clothes out of kelp, and _chase after albatrosses_ to sit in this moment and worry. He rolls onto his back, his shoulder crunching audibly as it relaxes away from the pressure of the marble. Something deep in Zhenya’s chest relaxes in turn as he sees Sid, not lying prone next to him but sitting with his legs crossed and leaning his back against the wall behind him. He is gloriously, unselfconsciously nude, and Zhenya permits a smile to crack his lips, sheer relief tangled with baser desires at the sight.

“I have never understood the mortal urge to sleep,” Sid says into the quiet. His eyes do not waver from Zhenya’s face, though they flicker slightly as if he is trying to take in every detail, from the bird’s nest mess of his hair, to whatever mark the marble has left upon his cheek, and hopefully _not_ to any spit left upon his chin in his sleep. “Yet I must admit, for the first time, I appreciate it. The peace that comes upon you soothes me as well, and your form takes to it kindly, relaxing so sweetly in limb and face. I have not seen a sight so instantly dear to me for many, many mortal’s lives worth of time.”

“What did you see then that captured you so?” Zhenya asks, as if his heart doesn’t thrill at Sid’s sweet words.

“When I had many worshippers to lift my strength, I could travel anywhere within this mortal world and many places without. Once, I dove deep into the sea, deeper than any human or merfolk could go. Perhaps I was the first ever to go down where there is no light. Such strange creatures live down there; some are blind, totally without eyes, and others make their own light, special glowing limbs used to lure in their prey. But most amazing of all, I saw a great whale-- not the whales you mortals hunt, but a different kind, as long as seven men and surely weighing as much or more than a fine trireme-- doing battle with a squid of much the same size. It was truly a wonder as they writhed together. Their battle could have crushed entire villages, should it have taken place on land, and went on for hours and hours. The whale’s sharp teeth and the squid’s strong tentacles could do only so much damage against a beast of equal size, but they struggled and struggled, because one must win. Finally, they drifted apart, the whale victorious though greatly wounded.”

Sid’s eyes sparkle as he tells his tale, and Zhenya cannot even spare a thought to privately wonder the true size of the beasts, without Sid’s obvious embellishments. As the story ends, though, a pang runs through Zhenya, and he blurts, “Promise me that you will speak of my battle for your honor with such regard after I have given my life.”

Sid’s lips downturn immediately. “You will survive this battle,” he says, suddenly harsh. “I will not hear a word otherwise. I have chosen you as my champion because I know this to be true.” He softens, perhaps at Zhenya’s stubborn frown and mouth half-open to deliver a retort. “And hopefully my words can serve as evidence that I will defend your name and speak of your deeds in highest regard.”

Zhenya nods, satisfied. He still does not understand Sid’s insistence that he will survive; he heard the tales growing up, as everyone did, and he knows that even a successful champion is not long for the mortal world. There are many enemies, be they of gods or of victors, that will see him as too fine a target to ignore. Sid’s stubborn refusal of this fact is baffling, especially having heard the tales of Enaloside’s previous successful champions: dragged through a town behind a horse until dead, chained and thrown into a boat that was set adrift until death came from dehydration, and for the lucky, dying as a result of wounds sustained in champion’s battle.

“What is your will, Enaloside?” Zhenya says formally. He wishes nothing more than to linger in this alcove, this quiet place away from the world and his duties, for as long as Sid will permit him, but-- it will only make the parting grow more bitter, and he’d rather it still have some sweetness, like the soft curl of Sid’s hair on his forehead.

Sid looks conflicted, and Zheya allows himself the luxury of imagining that the god is as conflicted as he, desiring for that which cannot be given. Finally, he says, “My will is to ensure your comfort before your battles. Now that I have finally attended to you in all ways, do you find those lacking? Or will you be able to fight, having been given my care to meet your needs?”

“I go to my death sated and content,” Zhenya says softly.

“You go to your _victory_ ,” Sid corrects harshly.

Zhenya rolls to his side and pushes himself up, mirroring Sid’s cross-legged position and meeting Sid’s eyes firmly as he says, “Victory does not require my continued existence.” Sid’s lips are thin and pursed, but Zhenya doggedly continues, “Your care has ensured my joy in the fate that awaits me, and a calmness in knowing I have achieved all that I desired in life. Do not mourn me, Sid; are you not a god? Can you not always step beyond the world and into your brother’s realm to visit the dead? I am never gone from you, Sid, so allow me my dignity in accepting my death.”

“Even should I suddenly be unable to pass into the underworld, I would claw past Cerberus with my bare hands to see you,” Sid says. It’s a silly vow, in Zhenya’s mind-- he is a god now and always shall remain one, so what does it matter were he not?-- but still it brings a warmth to his chest.

“I hope you will bring a piece of cloth to clean yourself with, then,” Zhenya says primly. “I will not kiss you if you are covered in the spit of three dogs.”

Sid stares at him, looking half-offended, before he snorts. “I will remember your commands, o champion,” he says drily. “Of course I do not dare to offend my mortal.”

The casual possessive lights the fire in Zhenya’s chest even brighter as he loftily teases back, “I am glad that you know your place and will not overstep your bounds.” They grin at each other, silly and loose, and it’s tempting to take Sid in his arms again, steal more pleasure out from underneath the weight of his final duty. Zhenya stands to search for his loincloth and kelp tunic and belt instead, and the cheerful mood drops, leaving behind only somber quiet tinged with sadness. The rustling behind him reveals Sid has followed his lead, and when Zhenya turns around, fully dressed, Sid is as well.

“I presume you are hungry,” Sid says, hesitant, and Zhenya’s stomach rumbles loudly at nearly the same moment, startling a laugh from them both. “That is answer enough, I think. There is nothing in this temple to feed any but myself, so let us set forth out into the world.”

Zhenya nods, suddenly uninterested in talking. He stalks over to the pedestal carrying the fish-spear and picks it up, hefting it once again. It fits in his hand like it was made to go there, heavy and cool to the touch, refusing to warm under his hand. Zhenya startles as Sid appears beside him.

“Come here,” Sid insists, grasping Zhenya above the elbow and dragging him over to another pedestal. This one has a golden net heaped upon it, and Sid snatches it up eagerly before offering it to Zhenya. Zhenya takes it reluctantly, expecting a great weight and stiffness from being made of gold, but it is as light as a whisper and moves just as any net made of reed.

“What is this for? Must I catch my own dinners again?” Zhenya asks, churlish. Sid gives him a look, wounded and confused, but Zhenya’s guilt is not great enough to apologize.

“To cast at your enemy’s feet, I thought, and tangle him in it to make the killing blow easier with his distraction,” Sid says. He still holds a small piece of the net, rubbing it between his fingers as his eyes go distant. “This net is what I used to catch the fish that fed me to godhood. You have earned the weapon of my warring with the other gods, but too you have earned this, the vehicle by which I ascended to Olympus.”

“Thank you,” Zhenya says reluctantly. He is grateful, just also-- irritated. His skin crawls for distance from Sid, to clear his mind and ready himself for battle. Yet it is not fair to take his irritation out on Sid, even as it rankles to be thankful and kind in the face of raising his bloodlust.

“Let us go, then,” Sid finally says, dropping the net and turning abruptly on his heel to stride towards the main room of the temple. Zhenya scurries to catch up to him, walking side-by-side in lock step as they traverse the length of the room, each step echoing strangely off of the marble.

They reach the far end and Zhenya turns to look, one last time, at Sid’s temple. The movements of mighty oceans stir in tiny ways through the pool, throwing back the glittering light of the many sunstones. The cult statue sits quietly over all, and without even looking at the true Sid beside him, Zhenya finds it wanting. The green eyes lack the life and sparkle of Sid’s, the stillness of it belies the powerful and graceful movement of his limbs, and the legs seem curiously straight given the bowlegged shape that Zhenya is now so intimately familiar with.

“Zhenya,” Sid urges, and Zhenya turns his back towards the statue and steps out through the bold, open doorway, the width of five men and as tall as six, onto the broad porch of the temple. Sid walks precisely next to him, but as they cross through the doorway, the swing of Sid’s arms brings his fingers past the threshold first, and his fingertips turn to sand, a tiny downward stream, followed by the meat of his arm and the opposite foot and his torso until all that is left of his body is a scattered pile of sand. He stands, a perfect, shimmering purple copy standing on the portico next to Zhenya, and though in his irritation he wished for distance from Sid, this is not what he desired, not really--

“Sid, what-- no--” Zhenya says, reaching out and feeling his grasping fingers slide with a ghostly sizzle through Sid’s glowing violet arm.

“Worry not,” Sid says, his voice faint in Zhenya’s ears but strong in the space between them, a mix of the godly declarations Zhenya grew used to listening to and the new, human-like voice he still desires to hear more. “I am here. When you restore my cult, I will have the strength to _be_ not only on my own sacred ground but everywhere that I am needed.”

“Can you not walk with me to my final task?” Zhenya asks desperately. _Do not ask the gods of what you do not wish to be fulfilled_ , his mother’s words ring in his ear, and he curses his strangely mercurial moods of the day and their consequences.

“I walk with you always,” Sid says, and a booming echo follows in Zhenya’s mind: **_I WALK WITH YOU ALWAYS_** **.**

\------

The temple of Libadion lies but one day further north, where a great river passes into the ocean. Sid tells Zhenya of his downfall as he breaks his fast, sitting across the fire and shimmering even more from the heat that rose between them.

“I was strong and feared nothing, for I had not yet learned fear,” Sid says, and Zhenya thinks he can see a distance in Sid’s eyes, even as he can see through Sid to the trees behind. Such a sight is unnerving still, so Zhenya turns his gaze back to his food and listens. “I thought that my devotees were mine forever, that once they pledged their loyalty, they could not rescind it. I treated them poorly as a result, though I called it justice; I threw great storms for perceived insults, drove away their fish if I found my sacrifices lacking, and kept their salt-pools empty of water purely to entertain myself, and so they tired of my temperament. When you are a god, though--” Zhenya looks up, concerned by the pause, to see Sid’s mouth twist, sardonic and bitter. “When you are a god, nobody speaks to you with truth in their heart. They cower, and they sacrifice more and sing your praises more and pray more in desperate hope of appeasement. I saw it as reward, validation that mortals deserved punishment and craved it.”

“How did a cruel god find kindness, then?” Zhenya asks. It seems strange to think of Sid as capable of such things; he has no doubt that people died from the wicked storms or sudden absences of fish brought by Sid’s rages. To go from that to a god that cared for a single mortal, learned of his life and his needs, and provided willingly despite Zhenya’s own poor temperament….

“I tasted fear,” Sid said simply. “Libadion, a little god of the rivers and lakes, saw an opportunity in my cruelty. Many of my worshipers turned to him, to find fish and to use his water to feed crops now made necessary by my stinginess. He felt his strength swell and decided that if he could take in my worshipers, equally so he could take in my oceans. I felt him stirring, heard whispers of his plans, but still I had no fear. My sacrifices only grew greater, my priests more prayerful, my people more cowering. What more could a god desire? How could he think to overthrow me when my worshipers were so devoted? Of course, I was wrong. Terror is not devotion. It consumes everything in its path and leaves behind a shell--” Sid cuts himself off with a deep breath and then restarts. “So Libadion sent forth a champion to challenge me, and I presented a champion in return.”

“Did you keep a champion at your temple, or did you have to find one?” Zhenya asks. It’s not an unreasonable question, as many gods had at their main temple both a high priest and a champion at all times. Most champions held their post for no more than five years, more if their god was particularly unpopular, less if there were many young men vying for the honor of holy representation with very little risk of actual challenge. A petty part of Zhenya wishes that Sid kept a champion, that he is the only mortal that Sid went out and found rather than accepted as they stepped forth.

“I kept a champion, of course,” Sid says, and for a flash, Zhenya could see the god that Sid was, haughty and entitled, sneering at the thought of a god too little for a champion-in-waiting. It passes quickly, a memory of days gone by-- or at least Zhenya hopes so. For the first time, he feels a twinge of unease and worry. What if Sid returns to his terrorizing, entitled ways as soon as he is returned to his rightful place as lord of the seas? _You will be dead_ , Zhenya reminds himself firmly. _What you know as truth is this Sid who sits before you and asks for your devotion, and so you have given it. Do not ask for trouble, as you have enough as it is, you fool._ “He was young and comely, perhaps twenty years of age, not entirely green but neither a grizzled old warrior. Libadion put forth a hideous beast, grey in hair and long of tooth, and I thought it a battle impossible to lose. I watched, of course, interested in the humiliation of Libadion. Instead, I received the humbling and tasted my own fear for the first time. His champion was clever and experienced enough that he did not require a youthful spirit or body; he was quickly able to deal a killing blow to my champion, ugly and messy but effective nonetheless. My worshipers responded immediately.” Sid buries his face in his hands, though his voice remains unmuffled and sounds as clear as it did before. “I felt my power drain, and I was flung from Mount Olympus within moments. My worshipers turned to Libadion like flowers to the sun, and they feasted on fish that night, a great meal provided entirely by Libadion. I watched my devoted mortals smile and laugh and eat for the first time in many moons, and I watched as their joy fed another. My grip on the oceans grew weak, as did I. I sunk to the bottom, amongst a forest of shipwrecks, and felt my temple crumble. It was many, many years before I awoke from my despair and rumination and sensed your spirit, and I knew my opportunity had arrived.”

“Your opportunity… an opportunity for what, exactly?” Zhenya asks hesitantly. The thought of Sid returning to the callous cruelty of Enaloside after Zhenya’s sacrifice weighs too heavy on his mind, and he knows better than to question the gods, but-- he can question _Sid_ , surely.

“Did you not wish for greatness when you departed your village?” Sid says, staring into the heart of the fire. “Have you not dreamed of a poem of your life, of your name on the lips of others long after your passing?”

“So if your wishes are granted, mortals will again sing of you, give you sacrifices, and honor your name, just as it was. Will you act as you did, then, as well? Will you take on the mantle of the great and powerful Enaloside, terrorize your devotees, and be struck down again? Will my sacrifice be naught for godly foolishness?” Zhenya presses.

Sid’s lips tighten, and he speaks slowly, reluctantly. “No, I will not be as that Enaloside again. I have learned from you too well, and now I do not seek my return only for my own ego. Now, because I have walked with you for so long, I understand what it means to be mortal in a way that no other god does, including Libadion. Now, I know what I am responsible for, and I want to take back what I once thought was owed me because now I have truly earned it. Libadion has not earned it; he is as stupid and petty and cruel as any other that stands on Olympus, and it irks me that he remains in my power when I could be more just and kind.”

They sit in silence for a long moment before Zhenya returns to the practicalities. “Where was your last champion’s battle held?” he asks, standing and kicking sand over the fire to douse it, dropping his fish bones and food waste on top.

“At Libadion’s temple. I was so foolishly confident as to challenge him on his own land. So-- we shall return in order for me to reclaim what is mine.”

“How is sending me to challenge him upon his own sacred ground _again_ not a repetition of your previous foolish confidence?” Zhenya asks. He does not wait for an answer before adding, “And if I am not victorious, this time you will be banished from Mount Olympus for all days.”

“It is not foolish confidence because I have nowhere else to challenge him,” Sid says wearily, as if he’s considered it for many long, quiet nights and still has not discovered an alternative. “He will not send his champion off of his sacred ground where his advantage runs deep. Our only choice is to go to him. And yes, you are correct-- should you not find victory, I will pass from this world and time, though it is not clear where I shall go.”

“So I will not lose, be it at his temple or yours,” Zhenya says simply. There is no other choice for him, it is clear, and he will not allow Sid’s faith in him to be misplaced. He sets off to the north, Sid keeping easy pace beside him. Zhenya is amused to notice that Sid goes to the effort of walking, even though he occasionally walks through a tree, cheerfully blithe and seemingly ignorant of his mistakes.

Sid stops him as the sun hangs low and heavy in the sky, maybe a little less than an hour before sunset. “Once you pass over the next hill, you will see the temple,” Sid says. “Here will do for you to take your rest tonight; tomorrow is as good a day of any for your battle.”

Sid somehow drives forth a brace of fat hares directly into Zhenya’s hands as punctuation. Zhenya is disappointed to see Sid disappear as he goes about scaring up the hares; he wonders, should Sid had stayed visible, if he would chase after the hares, shouting and waving his arms, or some similarly undignified method to startle them from cover and drive them to Zhenya. It remains a mystery even as Zhenya’s belly fills with gamey meat and tender grapes, though Sid reappears to keep him company through dinner.

An uncomfortable silence falls between them once Zhenya’s meal is finished. The fire crackles between them, but the greater distance is that between Zhenya’s physical body and Sid’s lack of one. Zhenya wonders, a little wistfully, if he would be permitted again the distraction of Sid’s body and pleasure should the god be able to take on a physical manifestation. It seems particularly poetic to receive the comfort of his god as a last gift the night before his death, but Zhenya supposes that their time together on the previous night would suffice given Sid’s current lack of physicality. “Good night,” Zhenya says abruptly, preferring loneliness to the paltry company of a shadow of Sid.

Sid frowns at him, but Zhenya lays upon the ground and pointedly turns his back to the violet ghost of disapproval. Sid doesn’t pester him, and Zhenya falls into sleep blessedly quickly.

\------

The temple of Libadion is clearly visible from the ridge of the hill Zhenya stands upon. It is made of shimmering white marble, and though it’s difficult to judge size from such a distance, Zhenya estimates the portico to be half the depth of Sid’s, and the main temple space even smaller. Some of the size reduction is practicality; the temple sits upon an island that splits a great river in twain, nearly at the mouth where it pours into the ocean. Still, there is a wide strip of perfectly usable land about the temple, and Zhenya internally scoffs at the meager house of his enemy. No, no-- _Enaloside’s_ enemy.

“I cannot go any further in this form,” Sid says, and Zhenya turns to see even now his violet shadow dissolving into mist at the edges. “But as I told you-- I will walk with you always. You may not see me, but I am with you as I always have been.”

“Thank you,” Zhenya says solemnly. Is this it? The moment feels oddly hollow, as it if is incomplete without a great devotion falling from one of their lips, without a procession of mourners pre-emptively wailing him down to the river, without some great narrator speaking Zhenya’s tale as he marches down the hill.

Zhenya shakes the feeling off, resolutely stepping down the hill and ignoring how his heart breaks a little further as each wisp of Sid detaches and drifts away, until there is nothing, not a hint of purple or bowed legs or laughter. A sudden fury fills his bones, setting his heart pounding, his skin to gooseflesh, and his muscles to twitch. He wants nothing more than to slaughter whoever has taken Sid from him, and he feeds his anger, nurses the fire higher and higher as he grows nearer and nearer to the temple.

There is a village on this shore of the river, and Zhenya strides through it with his head held high and his jaw clenched. The people part before him, some scrambling or running in their haste to remove themselves from his path. They are mere faceless, mobile obstacles to him, and he wonders distantly in return how he looks to them. A warrior of unknown purpose? A terrible messenger of the gods? A deranged man to be pitied and avoided?

There is a bridge between the shore and the island, saving Zhenya from either having to request a craft from a villager or swim over like a dog. Each step upon the creaking wooden bridge fuels his anger-- _this god thinks he can tame the rivers and the seas, build bridges, and depose gods without consequences._ I _am the consequence, and I have arrived_.

Zhenya positions himself squarely before the steps to the portico and ignores the young priest standing, hands spread, at the top of the steps. Instead, he examines the name of the temple: _Potamokhõstos_. His lip curls involuntarily from a chill wave of humor, because this god is truly that which has been thrown away by the river, as his temple is called. Slowly, he moves his gaze to defiantly stare down the priest, his hands shaking with nerves from Zhenya’s attention.

“I am Zhenya, champion of Enaloside, and I raise my voice and offer my body to challenge Libadion,” Zhenya declares, following the ancient forms he has heard in a thousand tales of the old, great heros. There is a strange echo to his voice, like Sid’s inner voice echoing his spoken, and Zhenya briefly wonders at it before returning to declaring his challenge. “I will fight his champion; I will defeat his champion; I will raise again Enaloside to the glory due to him upon the peak of Mount Olympus itself. This I vow to you-- so is there any man brave enough to meet my vow?”

Tradition demands an hour for Zhenya to wait for a champion to be procured, so he settles the butt of Sid’s fish-spear upon the ground and shifts into a waiting position. He fixes his eyes just below where is comfortable, staring at the top step joining to the portico floor and studying the veins of the marble. He lets his mind wander-- perhaps the veins of the marble of a god’s temple are like the veins of a mortal, and the god’s lifeblood of power runs through them just as a mortal’s lifeblood runs in theirs-- as each tiny moment passes with tedious slowness.

Finally, when Zhenya estimates the hour is half-gone, a man wearing a constrictive helmet and otherwise hiding behind a massive, curved shield walks ponderously across the portico, eventually emerging into the sunlight and teetering down the steps to stand before Zhenya. The other champion’s helmet is decorated with an ornate fish, Zhenya notices, just like the one painted intricately upon his shield, and the short sword that is briefly revealed from behind the shield carries is sharp and wicked.

“Who is this man that stands before my god’s great cult?” The champion says, starting the traditional call of combat between god’s champions. Zhenya can see too little of his face to judge him, but the hand clutching the sword does not look overly worn with age, and his voice is full and strong with youthful vigor. It will not be an easy battle, Zhenya reassures himself grimly. All is as expected.

“I am no man but champion brave, bestowed by gods with weapons great, to wrest from you my god’s own rights,” Zhenya replies, the tip-tapping rhythm of the ancient words of challenge slipping off his tongue and dancing fiendishly in the air between them.

“You come on foolish errand, man, your god has lost what was his right, and given mine what is his due.” The champion sneers as he spits _due_ , and Zhenya feels his blood light afire with rage, his vision shimmering with the need to show this upstart and his conceited god their place.

“Your words are brave but actions speak, so I will challenge you and yours. Step forth and speak of your armor, the weapons carried in your grasp,” Zhenya says, tongue cutting out the ritual words from air.

“I, Potamogeitōn, stand before you clothed in the blessings of Libadion,” the champion boasts, swinging up his great shield and showily turning to elicit cheers from the crowd that gathers about them already. “Upon my brow sits his holy fish, that which cannot be caught by any net-- golden or not--” his sneering, crawling look over Zhenya and his net makes it clear what he refers to, “Or any mortal stupid enough to try. So too the fish sits upon my shield, protecting my body with its slippery way of diverting any attacks. Upon my leg,” which he immediately displays from behind the shield, causing a cooing and fluttering amongst the female onlookers, Zhenya notices, “I am shielded by the rocks of his holy river, turned and smoothed by the endless flow of water he gives us, which will now turn away the blows of the foolish who believe Libadion to be anything but the rightful ruler of all waters. In my hand, I carry his sword, used to carve the rock open and allow water to spring forth, flowing rivers eventually creating great seas. I am Libadion’s champion, and I see the worm before me that challenges his mightiness and I laugh!” Potamogeitōn-- a name too wieldy for a man his size-- does throw back his head and laugh, a wicked, overconfident sound, and Zhenya feels his teeth grind together in his fury.

“I am Zhenya and I stand before this false prophet and his liar of a god to represent Enaloside, true king of the oceans and the storms. Your tokens are few and weak; your tunic is that made by mortals? What of your helm, is it too the work of men? Libadion gives you little assistance, for he is no great god but an imposter, swelled with foolish ego and waiting for the needle that will burst him! I stand before you, the chosen of the oldest lord of the sea, survivor of a mighty sea-storm. I lived upon the beaches and not only survived but thrived, despite my crew being dead and my ship beached. I chased the blessed albatross to pluck from it a feather of purest form, untouched by land and caressed only by briny sea-air. I wove from sacred kelp my tunic and sandals, imbued with the birthright power of Enaloside. I dived deep beneath the waves, I breathed water instead of air, to fetch this favored sunstone, a glowing memory of the sailor’s devotion to Enaloside. I destroyed my ship to give Enaloside my keel to anchor his temple, and in return, he gave me the weapons of the gods, his own net and fish-spear. A net that caught a hundred thousand fish to feed him from tiny baby to great god within five days, and a spear that has spilled the ichor of the gods and thirsts now for the sweet blood of mortals. I stand before you truly armed by the god of seas and storms, and as you laugh, I pity you, for you are lower than a worm.”

The champion bashes his sword against his shield, howling in fury. “Priest!” he calls, and Zhenya can see spittle fly forth from his mouth in his frothing rage. “Priest, bless this battle ground so that I may crush this milk-sucking child and return to my women!”

A priest descends from the temple portico, thus far unnoticed by Zhenya, and two devotees fluster their way around him. The devotees each carry a long river-reed with which they draw a circle about the two champions. The main priest sings a homily-- _Libadion, god of rivers, lord of lakes, seer of seas, bless this battleground and bring your champion luck_ \-- before stepping smartly out of the circle, motioning at one devotee to leave and dragging the other out by the top of his tunic.

 

The priest throws a tiny, delicate vial upon the ground so that it breaks and the bead of water within wets the dirt as he says crisply, “Begin!”

It is lucky that Zhenya is light on his feet, even more so after months of hard treks, for Potamogeitōn strikes out even before the vial touches the ground and allows their battle. Zhenya is immediately focused on preserving the connection between his head and his shoulders, so he cannot argue over the disgrace of Libadion and his cheating champion.

Zhenya dodges that first dishonorable strike, scrambling backwards and then to the side to keep Potamogeitōn in front of him but outside of reach. Already, Zhenya can see his victory will come through his mobility and the champion’s exhaustion from his heavy armor. Zhenya swings his fish-spear to hold it by the far end, jabbing it indiscriminately at the champion so he must continuously swing his heavy shield to block.

They circle each other warily, feinting and striking, and they complete two full turns of the ring before Zhenya feels confident in how he must use the net. There is only one chance for him to cast it, as he has no line to pull it back to him should he miss. But Zhenya has found, when Potamogeitōn must switch direction due to Zhenya’s trickery, his shield drags upon the ground for one moment, always causing him to stumble. If Zhenya can cast his net to the champion’s feet as the shield-edge catches, it will be difficult for the champion to avoid at least some instability, even if he does not fall outright.

Zhenya allows them to complete another half-turn of the circle, waiting for the champion’s breathing to grow more ragged. It finally does with a harsh and uneven rhythm, and Zhenya strikes. He feints left, then right, and casts his net at the champion’s feet. The shield corner catches and Potamogeitōn has nowhere to go but into the tangles of the net, and he stumbles further, struggling to not fall to his knees as he blindly strikes out with this sword.

Without conscious thought, Zhenya strikes again, kicking the shield on its outside edge towards the champion’s other hand, the motion both blocking a strike from the sword and causing a sickening crack as the champion cries out in pain. Potamogeitōn’s thrusts grow even more wild and Zhenya retreats warily.

Potamogeitōn screams again, and his shield clangs to the ground as his shield-arm drops to his side. Zhenya can faintly see the white glimmer of jagged bone, and he grins viciously. Even if Libadion wins today, his champion will not live long with an arm broken so terribly.

“This worm has tasted your blood and enjoys it!” Zhenya calls, taunting, as he darts forward and back. the champion looks ill-at-ease-- and likely also ill from pain-- and now they are each missing one token, one potential path of victory gone.

Zhenya feels his confidence grow, and he darts forward again to engage Potamogeitōn. The fish-spear clangs dully as it strikes and slides against the champion’s sword, and with a victorious crow and a flick of the wrist, the champion catches the fish-spear in the crook of its wicked hook and flicks it away from Zhenya.

Zhenya sees, almost in the slowed motion of underwater strokes, the sword heading irrevocably towards his stomach. He will die quickly and painfully, and he cannot protect himself.

“Goodbye, Sid,” he whispers, stepping close and taking the full length of the blade in his stomach. It brings him close enough that his dagger, once hidden in his belt pouch and now cradled in his palm, can reach Potamogeitōn’s heart, and they collapse as one onto the field of battle. Zhenya forces his eyes open just in time to watch his enemy’s slide closed for the final time.

A shocked silence settles over the battleground, the once-cheering onlookers now quiet in the face of their god’s defeat, but Zhenya cannot bring himself to care or hardly even notice. All there is and will be is the all-encompassing pain. It radiates through every limb even as he is numbed at his core, stabbing knives of fire running down arms and legs, and it even tingles in his fingers and toes--

Tingles?

Zhenya hears, distantly, the howl of a storm, the lashing of rain against the waves, and even though his vision fades in and out, he wants to see, he _must_ see, the sea and the storm one final time before he goes to the underworld. He reaches forward, laborious and slow, and tugs the handle of the sword from Potamogeitōn’s limp, dead grasp before bracing the blade where it joins his body. He closes his eyes, taking a few, ragged gasps, as deep as he can before the numbness recedes and pain strikes sharp enough to make him gag, and _pushes_. Somehow, he gets onto his back, and it’s enough that he can turn his head and look to the side, towards the ocean.

A storm of the ages rages against a strange bubble of calm that starts at the mouth of the river. The skies are green and boiling with angry clouds on the other side, purple lightning flashing without pause, some bolts jumping between the clouds and others reaching down to strike the waters. The howling wind seems to hit a wall at the river mouth, the rain coming to an abrupt stop and dripping down as if sliding along a wall. The waves grow higher and higher, collapsing against the invisible wall in a fury of sea-spray.

It is _beautiful_ , the strongest power of the sea on full display, but it doesn’t bring Zhenya the joy it once did. Now, all he can think of is Sid, the way the green of storm lurks in his eyes with the brown of deep-sea kelp, the way his voice can boom like the thunder of a raging storm or shush like the calm gentleness of baby waves lapping at the shore. Zhenya was ready to die for Sid, but now he realizes-- _dying for Sid_ in his mind meant dying _with_ Sid.

Zhenya is alone.

His eyes begin to slide shut, despair eating any will to cling to the fragile thread of life. A mighty howl reaches his ears, and he is helpless to flick open his eyes again, because it sounds like--

The wind has morphed, no longer the voiceless cry of nature but now the fury-soaked screams of Sid. Wave after wave after wave shatters with unnatural quickness against the wall at the mouth of the river, so close and yet so far from Zhenya. The battering stops, and the sea gathers itself, waves converging far out at sea and racing together as one wave, taller than a triune’s mast and longer than a quinquereme, approaches the river mouth.

Zhenya can hear the dull boom of the water meeting the invisible wall as he sees it flatten out like the others. It is useless, he thinks dully. Libadion’s power is too great. His own weakness and impending death leaves Sid without the full claim to his power despite Zhenya’s defeat of Libadion’s champion. Zhenya waits for the wave to recede, but-- it doesn’t? The thickness of the water hangs against the wall, pushing, pushing, and faintly, so faintly, Zhenya thinks he sees a figure within the wave.

The wall breaks.

The wave splits as the briny water surges up the brackish of the river mouth, revealing Sid striding forth with his mouth open, the sound of pure rage in the air condensing into his voice shouting a wordless refrain. Sid marches up the river, the bubble-wall ahead of him moving towards the island with his every movement. He is cloaked in furious lightning and the entire river shivers with each heavy step taken leaning forward, slow and ponderous like a ship sailing against a headwind but unstoppable nonetheless. Each lightning bolt twisting about him strikes his godheart in turn, building it brighter and brighter, the unearthly and immortal glow about him growing greater in return. The churning clouds trail in Sid’s wake like a veil and the sea surges up the river, staying beneath his feet, breaking waves caressing his toes as the flow of water turns entirely about.

Sid shudders to a stop at the edge of the island of Libadion. Zhenya wants to cry out, beg for Sid in his final moments, but the breath in his lungs is too shallow, and he can do no more than pant his desperation. Sid plants his feet upon the water, snarling as he seems to grow in stature as he _pushes_ against nothing with his entire body. Sid clenches his fists, tipping his head back, and the clouds above him darken before a mighty bolt of lightning strikes him. It stays for one, two, three, _four_ seconds, a jagged line throbbing with light, Sid disappearing into the glow.

The thunder arrives, a terrible cracking rumble, and through the streaks of purple and blue in his vision, Zhenya sees the invisible wall shatter, the clouds rushing in above the temple island, lightning striking the marble roof of the temple itself and leaving charred marks, waves pushing upriver until seawater fully surrounds the island.

Sid’s eyes are fixed upon Zhenya’s, and he rushes to Zhenya’s side, kneeling and checking the depth of Zhenya’s wound around the sword, his expression settling into an even more vengeful scowl. He leans down to kiss Zhenya’s brow, pulling back only far enough to meet Zhenya’s eyes with a firm gaze as he says, “Thank you, champion. You have done well. Rest, for it is my turn to care for you and protect your honor.”

“Why?” Zhenya says, feeling the slick slide of blood in his throat as he grinds the word out.

“I promised you that I walk with you always.”

 _This is more than walking_ , Zhenya wants to protest, but Sid stands before he can gather the strength for even the first syllable. Sid turns his back to Zhenya, taking three even steps forward. He gestures at the ocean, and Zhenya watches in dull fascination as the seawater surges, tendrils of water crawling uphill like the drips that slide down walls after the rain. Zhenya thinks at first that Sid calls the water to himself, for all the drops seem to converge towards him, but they slide past Sid’s feed and curl around Zhenya’s body like affectionate cats. The coolness brings at least a little relief, and soon Zhenya sits in a shallow puddle of endlessly chill seawater.

Sid glances back at Zhenya over his shoulder, his eyes dark and unreadable, before turning back to face the sea again. He throws his head back and shouts, “Libadion! It is time to face your reckoning! Your champion has fallen, and mine still lives. Will you break the ancient agreement and set sword against me yourself, or will you hide like the coward that you are?”

“THE ONLY COWARD IS YOU,” booms a voice unfamiliar to Zhenya. It does not speak in his head-- the opposite, actually, as his head is filled with a buzzing silence-- and it lacks the heavy weight of power that Sid’s has, sounding artificially loud rather than from a chest so great that it cannot be any other volume.

It’s difficult for Zhenya to focus his eyes now, but the feeling of lightheadedness, the chill in his limbs, the occasional moments where the world rocks around him, are passing. Perhaps it’s the effect of Sid’s seawater, or perhaps he is just too far gone. Regardless, he is grateful for the physical respite as he attempts to see what is happening out beyond Sid in the ocean itself. The clouds try to open to blue sky, then close and grow even more green. The waves, fuzzy as they are in Zhenya’s gaze, move unnaturally, growing and shrinking in a way not driven by any natural force.

 **_THE SEA DOES NOT BELONG TO YOU, IMPOSTER. SHE KNOWS HER MASTER. SHE WILL COME AT MY CALL AND NOT YOURS_**. Sid’s voice rings comfortingly in Zhenya’s head, and it’s only then that he realizes that his ears do not give him anything other than a gentle swishing sound, like water rushing into tide pools.

Zhenya can barely see Sid through the grey fog that threatens to cover his entire vision. The magic of Sid’s water can only go so far, and he must be at the limit, but he claws against fate because he must see, he _must_ , he cannot go peacefully without knowing that Sid is restored to his rightful place. He can faintly see another figure standing far out amongst the waves that screams words at Sid in a language that makes Zhenya’s skin crawl with power. Sid responds, his voice a thousand times louder, audibly shaking the very foundation of the temple behind him, and the heavens open up in response. Zhenya can’t feel the water pouring down his face, but his hearing is back, and there is a low rumble of thunder that rolls, and rolls, and rolls.

Sid lunges forward with a scream, the fish-spear that Zhenya had used appearing in his hand by some godly magic. The thunder continues, fading in and out for Zhenya, as the battle plays out upon the waves. The movement is too fast and too far, and Zhenya fights to keep his eyelids up. He says a sailor’s prayer to himself, half to keep his awareness alive and half in the hope that his words will carry his belief to Sid and tip the battle: _I offer to great Enaloside my devotions, and in return may I swim with the dolphins, may the seas be fair, and may I see your face on the other side of this journey_.

The wind howls.

The clouds break, a single ray of light escaping.

The fish-spear glints as it’s raised on high and plunged down.

 

The storm dies.

 

So does Zhenya.

\------

“ _Zhenya!_ ” a voice snaps. Zhenya rolls his eyes and resettles himself. “Zhenya, cease hiding!” Zhenya lifts an eyebrow and pointedly stares around himself, even though his harasser is not present. He sits in the open, surrounded by calm waters as he dangles his line and idly hopes for a fish. There is nothing even remotely _hiding_ about his existence.

Sid storms through the door of his own temple, face red and hair stuck up in a thousand directions. “There you are,” he scolds, and then jolts in surprise as the sight before him registers.

In the center of the devotional pool of Haliktupos is a boat. Given that the pool is only ankle-deep and the boat is sized large enough to fit an adult man, it sits upon the mosaic floor of the pool and tilts wildly to one side instead of floating, as one would expect a boat to so.

Inside sits Zhenya, insolently dangling a line over the side of the pool.

“There are no fish in that pool,” Sid says, perhaps inanely.

Zhenya shrugs.

Unsurprisingly, the motion further irritates Sid, and as he was already on the path to battle, his frustration explodes forth. “ _Why_ do you _persist_ in such _foolishness_ when I make it clear that there are no gods-be-damned _fish--_!”

Zhenya shrugs again, looking between the fish dangling on his line and a dumbstruck Sid.

“ _Where_ in the name of all things holy--” Sid shrieks, and then shrieks again because Zhenya has thrown the fish at him. Sid catches it and throws it immediately into the pool, where it lies quietly on its side to keep both its gills underwater.

Zhenya slowly, deliberately sets aside his fishing rod and stands in the boat; the movement reveals the flicker of fire in his chest. It is tiny compared to the inferno that is Sid’s, a candle flame next to a fire that feasts on forests, but Zhenya’s godheart burns nonetheless.

“You are such a _nuisance_ ,” Sid says, harried, and Zhenya steps out of the boat, sloshes through the pool, and captures him around the waist.

“I am no more a nuisance than the god of the seas who felt that the appropriate way to call to his power was a pool shallow enough that I cannot drown myself in it to escape your tirades,” Zhenya teases gently as he smoothes down the wild shape of Sid’s hair. Sid pout only grows greater at Zhenya’s reference to death, and so Zhenya relents, leaning forward and dropping kiss after kiss upon Sid’s lips until they curve upwards, helpless under the onslaught.

“Why do you always think you can distract me with kisses?” Sid grumbles, but it’s verging on good-natured, apparently already forgetting whatever had him in such a state.

“Because you kissed the words I had written to you upon my ship’s keel to split your godly powers and bring me back from the underworld,” Zhenya says. “I suspected at that time that you may have enjoyed the experience of kissing me.”

“Well,” Sid says, but no words follow, so Zhenya kisses him again. Even now, every time their lips touch, Zhenya’s heart squeezes like it did when he came back to life as a god, that single, so painful _thump_ of being called back to the joy and pain of existence. He remembers little of the underworld; maybe someday he will visit it again to learn it better, but as a small god, not as a mortal. He vaguely recalls dullness, no emotion, shadows of lives well lived curled up or wandering aimlessly or screaming into nothingness. Then-- _thump_. Pain and joy and Sid’s shining eyes.

“Did you come in here for a reason?” Zhenya finally asks, dragging himself from memories that feel so far gone and yet still so raw.

“Oh!” Sid says, face opening in surprise, before dragging them into the godly world that overlays the mortal one. Zhenya is still not used to the sensation, shuddering as he looks around at the ghostly overlay of the mortal world he stands in. “It is your naming day,” Sid informs him primly. “The priest is on his way to make his devotions, and the children of your name will make their sacrifices to you.”

“If they must,” Zhenya says doubtfully, dodging Sid’s elbow fairly artfully after so much practice.

“Yes, they _must_ ,” Sid says. “It is your duty as a god, as Amphialos rather than Zhenya, to accept their devotions and return to them your blessing.” Zhenya sighs. He is a _mortal_ , not one who bestows blessings on children that carry his name, be that name Zhenya or Amphialos or anything else.

Their bickering ends as the procession enters their temple headed by their high priest. _Their_ indeed, for Sid had appeared to his new high priest soon after the champion’s battle and declared Zhenya his consort and equal partner in the cult. Zhenya hid on Mount Olympus for days after that manifestation, embarrassed over the level of detail with which Sid and the high priest discussed his merits as a consort. Still, Sid’s will was enforced, and now Haliktupos stands for both Enaloside and Amphialos.

Six junior priests, both male and female, follow the high priest, carrying fish and incense and wine, the common accoutrements of sacrifice. Twelve children follow them in turn, from five to fifteen years of age, each clinging to some kind of reed item as they stare around in awe or in feigned disdain as is appropriate to their age. The high priest comes to a stop before the cult statues-- Zhenya’s but a man-sized marble carving next to Sid’s imposing statue-- and kisses his right hand towards each statue in turn before turning in a circle to perform the adoration. The entire party then arranges themselves around the altar, the high priest and his devotees on the side nearest the statues and the children towards the pool.

The high priest reaches out, resting two fingers upon the highest arch of the keel, and intones, “Father Amphialos, he of two seas, we call upon you from this holy ground. We call on your first aspect, our protector Naumakhēteon, he who fights by the sea, and we call on your second aspect, Eukallõpistos, he beautifully adorned for the glory and pleasure of Enaloside. Together, you are sea-beloved and sea-protector Amphialos, arisen on this day from the battlefield by the love of Enaloside to take your rightful place on Mount Olympus.”

The high priest pauses for a breath and gestures forth his junior priests before continuing. “May you be honored by the sacrifices we give you, of our time and our hearts and our beloved artifacts, on this holiest day. For one year you have looked over us, and so we offer in return one amphora of our finest wine in thanks for the calm seas you bring through Enaloside’s pleasure.” A junior priest tips the amphora over the keel, careful to keep its path away from the still-wet glisten of blood upon one end, and Zhenya tries not to squirm at the blessing on behalf of the fulfillment of his-- and Sid’s-- carnal desires. The wine changes to saltwater as it drips from the keel, and it runs quickly across the flat marble to drip into the sacred pool.  “For one year you have looked over us, and so we offer in return these fish in thanks for the safe harvest you bring through your protection.” Another priest sets the fish upon the flame that burns bright and violet-edged before the altar, and the group stands in silence as the fish turn to wide flakes of ash that drift up to melt into the sunstones above. Zhenya opens his mouth, and Sid steps upon his foot before he can protest _again_ that he had no hand in the strangely plentiful shoals of fish this year. “May this sacred feast bring you pleasure to equal the joys you have brought to your devoted followers in this year,” the priest continues, and Zhenya blinks as the energy-shock of sacrifice hits him, rippling through his godheart and sizzling out through his body, dying in his finger- and toe-tips.

“One year ago, Father Amphialos, you stood in the land of the enemy and declared your will to fight his cruelty and false rule. One year ago, you fell in the name of Enaloside, but not before you vanquished the champion of the weak and evil upon his own sacred land. One year ago, mighty Enaloside split his godheart, and before the eyes of your devoted, you rose again, the fires of Olympus itself burning in your heart. The usurper Libadion, the unworthy Libadion, the forever-cursed Libadion, fled before the power of Enaloside and Amphialos combined, and today we bow our heads again before this power, for none shall soon forget your might and your kindness.” The party falls to their knees, all raising their arms and turning their palms to the sky, except for the high priest who grasps the altar, as they intone as one, “Amphialos, Blessed Concubine to Mighty Enaloside, Executor of Justice, Great Adventurer, and Protector of Fishermen, may you fulfill the desires of gods and men and defend us from injustice and mistreatment.” Alone, the high priest adds, “May your cult flourish as it has for this year for time eternal, and may we never forget your sacrifice and blessings that you bestow upon us.”

The party stands; Zhenya’s face feels hot, though he still isn’t sure that he can blush while standing upon the godly plane. Sid surprisingly does not taunt Zhenya but instead draws closer, wrapping an arm about Zhenya’s waist and squeezing lightly. Zhenya, grateful, leans into the solid strength of Sid as the embarrassment continues apace. “You will grow used to it,” Sid assures him quietly, and Zhenya’s response is an equally quiet, very incredulous huff.

“As Amphialos lit his sacred ship alight and allowed it to drift into the ocean, so these twelve children of his blessed name will light their own ships and set them afloat on the ocean of our soul,” the priest announces. He walks around to stand between pool and altar, holding a candle and offering it outward. One by one, each child files past him, revealing their tightly-held reed objects to be tiny boats. The prow, or perhaps stern, of each boat is lit by the candle before the child kneels and sends the vessel off into the devotional pool. Each child whispers their prayer as they release their boat, and their physical voices are impossible for Zhenya to hear, but their prayers echo loudly in his head. _Please, Amphialos, bring my father kinder weather for fishing_ , and _Holiness, give our nets your productivity_.

Finally, after what feels to be a thousand years of waiting, the last boat is set out to sail. The high priest finishes with what should have been one final blessing-- but the he continues apace.

“In final honor of holy Amphialos’ first naming-day, we have created a token of our devotion to please both he and Enaloside, and we humbly ask for signs of his favor in return,” the high priest declares, and Zhenya feels all of the blood rush out of his face as his limbs become cold. Hopefully he is dying, and will expire before this truly horrifying moment.

Sid’s wicked, impish grin confirms to Zhenya that he has not been so lucky. They follow the procession outside to a glorious fountain before the temple, surmounted by a statue covered in a toga-cloth. Zhenya’s breath comes quickly as the priest reaches forward and tugs at the cloth to draw it away and reveal what lies beneath.

It is a heinous, boyish representation of nobody that Zhenya has ever known, but presumably is meant to be himself. The statue is more than half-nude, sturdy but shapely of body-- and delicate of ankle, Zhenya notices with an internal groan, clearly an aspect _divinely inspired_ by Sid and his strange obsession with Zhenya’s thin ankles-- and its face forms a soft moue underneath a cow-eyed stare as it tips an amphora into the fountain. It is surrounded by frolicking fish, two twining around his ankles, one tucked under an arm, apparently completely forgotten, and another four out in the body of the fountain, twisting towards the statue’s adoring gaze.

“Forevermore Amphialos will stand before Haliktupos and defend Enaloside, as he once stood before Potamokhõstos to do the same, though he is not alone upon this ground as he first was before the enemy,” and Zhenya groans and drops his head into his hands as Sid cackles viciously. “Father Amphialos, we ask you show us a sign of your approval of our gift.” Before Zhenya can say anything, Sid flicks his fingers and the statue is limned in purple fire. A gasp passes among the worshipers, a few falling to the ground, and the high priest bows deeply, murmuring prayers of thanks and worship.

“I regret everything,” Zhenya says. He _was_ looking forward to smashing that monstrosity, but he suspects that may not be a wise move now, thanks to Sid’s meddling. It was probably all his idea, the damned irritating--

Sid curls up to him, instantly, ridiculously contrite. “ _Everything_?” he purrs, clearly an attempt at seduction.

It works.

“Not _everything_ ,” Zhenya says. The life of a god is a lot more embarrassing on the whole than he had ever thought, but--

 **_I WALK WITH YOU ALWAYS_**.

That he does.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [tumblr](http://itsacoup.tumblr.com)!
> 
> CONTENT WARNINGS: Main character kills a variety of animals for sustenance as well as does battle with and kills another man. Detailed account of main character's death. Main character is resurrected without giving explicit consent. Main character, a mortal, requests to and has sex with a god, but the power imbalance is not explicitly abused, though the main character briefly wishes so.
> 
> For any who are interested, here are translations of all of the Greek names used in this fic.
> 
> Kallikhthus: beauty-fish
> 
> Haliktupos: sea-smitten  
> Enaloside: gift of the sea
> 
> Libadion: small spring  
> Potamokhõstos : deposited by the river  
> Potamogeitōn: pondweed
> 
> Amphialos: of two seas  
> Naumakhēteon: one must fight by the sea  
> Eukallõpistos: beautifully adorned
> 
> There were also a couple of great names that got cut from the fic itself for various reasons, but here they are!  
> Eusphuros (with beautiful ankles) is an official epithet of Amphialos thanks to Sid’s (mentioned) obsession with Zheya’s ridiculously skinny ankles! I just couldn’t find a way to work it in and explain the joke without it getting clumsy.  
> Kumopoleia (wave-walker) was a potential epithet of Amphialos but it didn’t quite fit Zhenya and his journey in my eyes.  
> Kētoomai Kallihalosakhnē: (grow to a sea monster of beautiful sea-foam) was the alternate choice for the two aspects of Zhenya’s godhood. Beautiful and alliterative, but it unfortunately struck me as a bit too dramatique for Zhenya. However, Sid still definitely calls Zhenya his “little sea monster” as an endearment!


End file.
